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THE      YAKABOO. 


ALONE    IN    THE 
CARIBBEAN 


Being  the  Yarn  of  a  Cruise 
in  the  Lesser  Antilles  in  the 
Sailing   Canoe  "Yakaboo" 


BY 

FREDERIC  A.  FENGER 

ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRESERVATION 

COPY  ADDED  f   %\  I 

ORIGINAL  TO  BE  -<r  \k 

RETAINED 

JAN  2  1  1993 


COPYRIGHT,  191 7, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 

AND  THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  FATHER 


£53143 


Item — I  order  that  my  executors  purchase  a 
large  stone,  the  best  that  they  can  find,  and  place 
it  upon  my  grave,  and  that  they  write  round  the 
edge  of  it  these  words: — "Here  lies  the  honourable 
Chevalier  Diego  Mendez,  who  rendered  great' 
services  to  the  royal  crown  of  Spain,  in  the  dis- 
covery and  conquest  of  the  Indies,  in  company 
with  the  discoverer  of  them,  the  Admiral  Don 
Christopher  Columbus,  of  glorious  memory,  and 
afterwards  rendered  other  great  services  by  him- 
self, with  his  own  ships,  and  at  his  own  cost. 
He  died.  ...  He  asks  of  your  charity  a  Pater- 
noster and  an  Ave  Maria." 

Item — In  the  middle  of  the  said  stone  let  there 
be  the  representation  of  a  canoe,  which  is  a  hol- 
lowed tree,  such  as  the  Indians  use  for  navigation; 
for  in  such  a  vessel  did  I  cross  three  hundred 
leagues  of  sea;  and  let  them  engrave  above  it 
this  word:  "CANOA." 
From  the  will  of  Diego  Mendez,  drawn  up  June  igth, 


PREFACE 

T)  most  of  us  the  West  Indies  comprise  Cuba,  Ja- 
maica, Haiti  or  San  Domingo  (commonly  thought 
to  be  two  separate  islands),  Porto  Rico  and  the  smaller 
islands  of  the  Bahamas,  the  Bermudas  and  Barbados, 
somewhere  adrift  off  the  Florida  coast  like  a  second 
Sargasso  Sea.  The  lower  Caribbees  seem  as  mythical 
as  the  lost  Atlantis  itself.  I  feel  that  I  shall  have  ac- 
complished much  if  by  means  of  a  simple  explanation 
and  the  use  of  a  chart  I  can  set  the  reader  right  for  all 
time. 

In  general  the  West  Indies  include  the  Bahamas 
(a  group  of  low-lying  coral  cays  just  across  the  Gulf 
Stream  where  it  sweeps  northward  past  the  east  coast 
of  Florida)  but  more  particularly  they  are  those  islands 
which  stretch  to  the  eastward  fom  Yucatan  to  just  be- 
yond Porto  Rico  where  they  take  a  southward  trend 
forming  an  almost  perfect  arc  from  the  Virgins  to 
Trinidad  which  is  in  reality  the  northeast  corner  of 
South  America.  Thus  they  bound  the  Caribbean  Sea, 
on  the  north  and  east,  which  in  the  old  days  was  also 
called  the  Northern  Ocean  in  contradistinction  to  the 
Southern  Ocean  or  Pacific  which  Balboa  first  saw  di- 
rectly to  the  south  from  the  Isthmus  of  Panama.  The 
large  islands,  Jamaica,  Cuba,  San  Domingo  and  Porto 
Rico  are  known  as  the  Greater  Antilles  while  the  small- 
er islands  which  take  up  the  march  to  Trinidad  are 
known  as  the  Lesser  Antilles.    Of  the  Lesser  Antilles, 

ix 


x  PREFACE 

the  Virgins,  Anguilla,  St.  Martin,  Barbuda,  Saba,  St. 
Eustatius,  St.  Kitts,  Nevis,  Antigua,  Montserrat,  Gua- 
deloupe, Dominica  and  Martinique  are  known  as  the 
Leeward  Islands;  St.  Lucia,  St.  Vincent,  the  Grena- 
dines, Grenada,  Barbados  and  Tobago  are  known  as 
the  Windward  Islands. 

The  Bermudas  form  an  entirely  separate  group  quite 
distinct  from  the  West  Indies — although  their  climate 
is  semi-tropic — and  lie  750  miles  ese  of  Hatteras  and 
some  eight  hundred  miles  from  the  nearest  Bahamas. 

The  Lesser  Antilles  are  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
West  Indies  in  that  the  Spaniards  played  very  little 
part  in  their  colonisation  or  development.  While  it  is 
true  that  Columbus  on  his  later  voyages  discovered  the 
Lesser  Antilles,  a  few  of  which  he  actually  set  foot  up- 
on and  most  of  which  he  merely  named  as  he  saw  them 
from  a  distance,  the  Spaniards  made  no  attempts  to 
settle  on  these  small  islands  *  and  they  lay  unmo- 
lested for  over  a  hundred  years  till  early  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  they  were  settled  by  the  English,  French 
and  Dutch  and  a  little  later  by  the  Danes.  Aside  from 
the  patois  of  the  Negro  which  varies  more  or  less  in 
the  different  islands,  there  are  now  but  two  languages 
spoken,  English  in  the  British,  Dutch  and  Danish  pos- 
sessions and  French  in  the  French  islands.  For  a  time 
the  Swedes  owned  St.  Bartholomew  which  was  ceded 
to  France  in  1878. 

The  history  of  these  small  islands  should  be  of  in- 
terest to  us  on  account  of  their  early  intimacy  with  our 
own  colonies  and  especially  because  of  the  part  which 
the  Dutch  island  of  St.  Eustatius  played  in  aiding  us 
at  the  time  of  the  Revolutionary  War.    But  our  knowl- 

*  With  the  exception  only  of  Tobago. 


PREFACE  xi 

edge  of  their  early  days  is  meagre,  hurricanes  and  the 
depredations  of  the  little  wood  ant  (which  literally 
eats  away  the  wooden  houses  from  about  their  own- 
ers) being  the  two  chief  destroyers  of  manuscripts  and 
their  containers.  What  of  the  life  of  St.  Eustatius — 
scarcely  eight  miles  in  area — which  had  its  beginnings 
before  our  Plymouth  colony  and  in  178 1  when  at  the 
height  of  its  prosperity  it  was  destroyed  by  Rodney  it 
had  a  population  of  nearly  40,000 — more  than  either 
Boston  or  New  York  at  that  time?  Its  printed  history 
does  not  cover  much  more  than  20,000  words.  But 
with  history  we  have  little  to  do  in  this  account.  I  have 
limited  myself  to  those  incidents  which  might  have  a 
direct  interest  for  the  reader  and  some  of  them,  in 
whole  or  in  part,  as  far  as  I  can  ascertain,  now  appear 
in  print  for  the  first  time.  Those  who  are  familiar  with 
the  literature  of  the  Lesser  Antilles  will,  I  hope,  be 
agreeably  disappointed  in  not  finding  in  these  pages 
those  hardy  perennials  of  the  guide  books — the  build- 
ing of  schooners  at  Bottom  Town  on  Saba,  eight  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  sea,  and  the  deadly  snakes  of  the 
Petit  Piton  that  killed  the  members  of  a  climbing  party 
one  by  one  till  the  last  man  fell  only  a  few  feet  from 
his  goal. 

So  I  have  attempted  neither  a  history  nor  a  guide 
book  but  have  spun  out  the  yarn  of  a  lone  cruise  in  a 
sailing  canoe.  I  went  to  study  the  islands  at  first  hand 
and  in  the  craft  which  I  believed  would  be  most  suit- 
able for  the  purpose — a  deep-sea  sailing  canoe.  The 
main  portion  of  the  cruise  has  appeared  serially  in 
abbreviated  form  in  the  "Outing' '  magazine. 

I  have  made  no  attempt  to  discuss  the  problem  of 
the  native — the  more  one  studies  it  the  less  one  has  to 


xii  PREFACE 

say — and  my  few  explosions  of  choler  will,  I  hope,  be 
forgiven.  Throughout  the  islands  from  Grenada  to 
St.  Thomas,  I  have  made  friends  whom  I  count  among 
my  best  and  it  is  their  unexampled  courtesy  and  gen- 
erosity that  go  to  make  up  some  of  the  most  pleasant 
memories  of  the  cruise.  Those  whom  I  would  es- 
pecially mention  are  C.  V.  C.  Home  and  T.  B.  C. 
Musgrave,  who  at  once  made  me  feel  at  home  in  St. 
George's  and  who,  when  they  could  not  dissuade  me 
from  starting  out  in  the  Yakaboo,  did  everything  in 
their  power  to  facilitate  my  preparations  for  the 
cruise;  Dr.  William  S.  Mitchell,  who  loaned  me  his 
cotton  ginnery;  "Jack"  Wildman,  who  helped  me  to 
much  interesting  material;  "Steady"  Glean,  who  res- 
cued me  from  the  mob  at  Sauteurs  (but  that  is  another 
story)  ;  Whitfield  Smith,  now  at  Grand  Turk  and 
whose  place  at  Carriacou  has  been  happily  filled  by 
Musgrave ;  McQueen,  of  pleasant  memory  of  Top  Hill 
days;  Noel  Walker — I  wonder  if  he  has  joined  the 
ranks  of  the  many  who  have  "gone  west" ;  Rupert  Ot- 
way,  whose  hospitality  I  enjoyed  at  Union;  "Old  Bill" 
Wallace;  V.  J.  Monplaisir,  "Monty";  Captain  Harry 
Turner,  then  Harbour  Master  of  Castries  and  now  in 
Mombasa;  Pere  Remaud,  I  was  going  to  say  Labat; 
Monsieur  Waddy  and  the  whole  of  the  "Union  Spor- 
tive" ;  Mr.  Frederick  Woolworth,  who  took  me  in  on 
faith  and  for  whom  I  acted  as  cook  in  times  of  stress; 
Dr.  John  Morgan  Griffith,  enthusiast,  of  Statia;  Cap- 
tain "Ben"  Hassel,  "Freddie"  Simmons,  and  Leslie 
Jarvis,  Commissioner  of  Tortola. 

F.  A.  F. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    The  Yakaboo  is  Born  and  the  Cruise  Begins  21 

II    Whaling  at  Ile-de-Caille 42 

III  Kick  'em  Jinny 70 

IV  Carriacou — Mayero — Bequia 84 

V    Climbing  the  Soufriere  of  Saint  Vincent  .  1 10 

VI    Days  with  a  Vanishing  Race       .     .     .     .  135 

VII    Delights  of  Channel  Running    ....  155 

VIII    Martinique — Fort  de  France      .     .     .     .  188 

IX    St.  Pierre — Pelee 208 

X    A  Land  Cruise — The  Calm  of  Guadeloupe  .  233 

XI    We  Make  Our  Best  Run 270 

Statia — The  Story  of  the  Salute    .     .     .  289 

Saba 316 

XIV    Sir  Francis  Drake's  Channel  and — Yaka- 
boo       327 


xin 


ILLUSTRATIONS 
The  "Yakaboo" Frontispiece 

PAGE 

Course  of  the  "Yakaboo" xx 

The  "Carenage'^of  St.  George's — Grenada        ...       24 

"Moored  stem-to  along  the  quays  was  a  fleet  of  small 
trading  sloops,  shabby  in  rig  and  crude  of  build"   .     28 

The  market  place  of  St.  George's — Grenada      ...       34 

The  tall  native  whom  I  hit  in  the  chest  with  the  bag  of 
cranberries.     On  the  beach  at  Duquesne  Point   .  38 

Iron  coal-pot  of  the  West  Indies 39 

Jack's  shack  on  Ile-de-Caille  where  I  made  my  home     44 

The  "Ajoupa" — a  reminder  of  Carib  days  ....       44 

In  this  channel  from  January  to  May,  the  humpback 
loafs  on  his  way  to  the  colder  waters  of  the  North 
Atlantic 50 

The  "Humpbacker"  under  sail 58 

Unshipping  the  rig 58 

"Once  more  we  had  the  weather  berth  and  bore  down 
on  them  under  full  sail,  Bynoe  standing  high  up  on 
the  'box,'  holding  to  the  forestay" 66 

Grenadine  whaleboat  showing  bow  and  false-chock. 
The  harpoon  is  poised  in  the  left  hand  and  heaved 
with  the  right  arm 66 

"The  immense  intestines  and  bladders  that  looked  like 
a  fleet  of  balloons  come  to  grief" 72 

My  Comstock  tent 79 

xv 


xvi  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

My  camp  at  Mabouya So 

Loaded  and  ready  to  get  off 80 

On  Carriacou — looking  north 86 

"There  had  been  one  house  in  which  the  owner  had 
lived  on  the  top  of  the  hill" 90 

Cassava  cakes  drying  on  a  roof  at  Mayero.    Ruins  of  the 
old  estate  house  of  the  St.  Hilaires  in  the  background     96 

Drying  the  Cassava,  Isle  de  Ronde 96 

Preparing  to  leave  Union.  Walker  sitting  on  the  rail 
of  his  sloop  and  regarding  the  "Yakaboo"  doubt- 
fully      102 

Coming  back  for  repairs — six  men  doing  the  work  of 
two 102 

The  effect  of  the  trade  wind  on  the  vegetation.    Bequia  108 

"Old  Bill"  and  the  skipper  of  the  "Yakaboo"        .      .     108 

"As  I  neared  the  shore  I  saw  that  the  jetty  was  black 
with  black  people" 114 

The  usual  appearance  of  the  jetty.  Boat  unloading 
for  the  market 114 

Along  the  lee  coast  of  St.  Vincent.     Point  near  Layou  120 

My  surly  guides.     Taken  above  the  line  of  vegetation  126 

The  Wallibu  Dry  River  where  we  began  the  ascent.    The  . 
Soufriere  in  the  distance,  its  cone  hidden  in  the  mist.  126 

How  the  Caribs  rig  a  calabash  for  carrying  water    .      .131 

The  rim  of  the  crater 132 

"A  thousand  feet  below,  held  in  the  bowl  of  the  crater 
is  a  lake  nearly  a  half  mile  in  diameter"  .      .      .      .      132 

Black  Carib  boy  at  Owia  Bay.  His  catamaran  is  taxed 
at  three  pence  per  foot 140 


ILLUSTRATIONS  xvii 

PAGE 

"There  is  still  a  satisfying  amount  of  Indian  blood  left 
in  these  people" 140 

Rig  of  a  Carib  canoe 141 

The  Carib  boy  of  St.  George's  who  had  been  brought  to 
Grenada  after  the  eruption  of  the  Soufriere   .      .      .      150 

Yellow  Caribs  at  Point  Espagnol 150 

The  camera  got  them  just  as  they  had  slipped  through 
the  high  surf 166 

The  ruins  of  the  church  at  Owia.  The  bell  and  the 
ladder  can  be  seen  at  the  left 180 

Native  canoe — St.  Lucia 212 

Native  canoe  under  sail 226 

Sunset — St.  Pierre 250 

Ruins  of  the  Cathedral 250 

Hauling  in  the  boat 280 

The  capstan 280 

The  bucket 280 

The  old  guns  at  Fort  Oranje,  St.  Eustatius.  The  date 
1780  may  be  seen  on  the  trunnion  of  the  nearest  gun  292 

The  tomb  of  Admiral  Krull 292 

"Here  was  a  town  walled  in  by  Nature"      ....     304 

At  the  head  of  the  Fort  Ladder 318 

"Here  Freddie  Simmons  teaches  embryo  sailor-men, 
still  in  their  knee  trousers,  the  use  of  the  sextant 
and  chronometer" 318 

The  "dikes"  of  Bottom  Town 324 

A  cozy  Saba  home 324 

The  jetty  at  Norman's  Island 332 

Christian  the  Ninth — St.  Thomas      .     .     .     .  ;  •  7-  34° 


ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 


ALONE 
IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  "YAKABOO"  IS  BORN  AND  THE  CRUISE  BEGINS 


"Crab  pas  mache,  li  pas  gras; 
li  mache  touop,  et  li  tombe  nans  chodier" 

"If  a  crab  don't  walk,  he  don't  get  fat; 
If  he  walk  too  much,  he  gets  in  a  pot." 

— From  the  Creole. 

IS  it  in  the  nature  of  all  of  us,  or  is  it  just  my  own 
peculiar  make-up  which  brings,  when  the  wind 
blows,  that  queer  feeling,  mingled  longing  and  dread? 
A  thousand  invisible  fingers  seem  to  be  pulling  me, 
trying  to  draw  me  away  from  the  four  walls  where  I 
have  every  comfort,  into  the  open  where  I  shall  have 
to  use  my  wits  and  my  strength  to  fool  the  sea  in  its 
treacherous  moods,  to  take  advantage  of  fair  winds 
and  to  fight  when  I  am  fairly  caught — for  a  man  is  a 
fool  to  think  he  can  conquer  nature. 

It  had  been  a  long  time  since  I  had  felt  the  weather- 
glow  on  my  face,  a  feeling  akin  to  the  numb  forehead 
in  the  first  touch  of  inebriety.  The  lure  was  coming 
back  to  me.    It  was  the  lure  of  islands  and  my  thoughts 

21 


22  AJ.ONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

hacJ.Tgorie  back  to  a  certain  room  in  school  where  as  a 
boy  I  used  to  muse  over  a  huge  relief  map  of  the  bot- 
tom of  the  North  Atlantic.  No  doubt  my  time  had 
been  better  spent  on  the  recitation  that  was  going  on. 

One  learns  little  of  the  geography  of  the  earth  from 
a  school  book.  I  found  no  mention  of  the  vast  At- 
lantic shelf,  that  extended  for  hundreds  of  miles  to 
seaward  of  Hatteras,  where  the  sperm  whale  comes  to 
feed  in  the  spring  and  summer  and  where,  even  while 
I  was  sitting  there  looking  at  that  plaster  cast,  terrific 
gales  might  be  screaming  through  the  rigging  of  New 
Bedford  whalers,  hove-to  and  wallowing — laden  with 
fresh  water  or  grease  according  to  the  luck  or  the 
skill  of  the  skipper.  Nor  was  there  scarcely  any  men- 
tion of  the  Lesser  Antilles,  a  chain  of  volcanic  peaks 
strung  out  like  the  notched  back  of  a  dinosaur,  from 
the  corner  of  South  America  to  the  greater  islands  that 
were  still  Spanish.  Yet  it  was  on  these  peaks  that  my 
thoughts  clung  like  dead  grass  on  the  teeth  of  a  rake 
and  would  not  become  disengaged. 

Now,  instead  of  looking  at  the  relief  map,  I  was 
poring  over  a  chart  of  those  same  islands  and  reading 
off  their  names  from  Grenada  to  tiny  Saba.  At  my 
elbow  was  a  New  Bedford  whaler  who  had  cruised 
over  that  Atlantic  shelf  at  the  very  time  I  was  contem- 
plating it  as  a  boy.  And  many  years  before  that  he 
had  been  shipwrecked  far  below,  on  the  coast  of  Bra- 
zil. The  crew  had  shipped  home  from  the  nearest 
port,  but  the  love  of  adventure  was  strong  upon  the 
captain,  his  father,*  who  decided  to  build  a  boat  from 

♦Captain  Joshua  Slocura,  who  sailed  around  the  world  alone  in 
the  sloop  Spray, 


THE  YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS    23 

the  wreckage  of  his  vessel  and  sail  in  it  with  his  wife 
and  two  sons  to  New  York. 

With  mahogany  planks  sawed  by  the  natives  they 
constructed  a  large  sea  canoe.  For  fastenings  they 
used  copper  nails  drawn  from  the  wreck  of  their  ship's 
yawl,  headed  over  burrs  made  from  the  copper  pennies 
of  Brazil.  Canvas,  gear,  clothes,  and  food  they  had 
in  plenty  and  on  the  thirteenth  of  May  in  1888,  it  being 
a  fine  day,  they  put  to  sea.  The  son  traced  their  course 
with  his  finger  as  they  had  sailed  northward  in  the 
strong  trade  winds  and  passed  under  the  lee  of  the 
Lesser  Antilles.  Later  as  a  whaler,  he  had  come  to 
know  the  islands  more  intimately. 

"Here!"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  Grenadines,  "you 
will  find  the  niggers  chasing  humpback  whales."  On 
Saint  Vincent  I  should  find  the  Carib  living  in  his  own 
way  at  Sandy  Bay.  Another  island  had  known  Joseph- 
ine, the  wife  of  Napoleon,  and  another  had  given  us 
our  own  Alexander  Hamilton.  And  there  were  many 
more  things  which  I  should  come  to  know  when  I  my- 
self should  cruise  along  the  Lesser  Antilles. 

We  talked  it  over.  After  the  manner  of  the  Carib, 
I  would  sail  from  island  to  island  alone  in  a  canoe. 

Next  to  the  joy  of  making  a  cruise  is  that  of  the 
planning  and  still  greater  to  me  was  the  joy  of  creat- 
ing the  Yakaboo  which  should  carry  me.  I  should  ex- 
plain that  this  is  an  expression  used  by  Ellice  islanders* 
when  they  throw  something  overboard  and  it  means 
"Good-bye."  "  'Good-bye'  to  civilisation  for  a  while," 
I  thought,  but  later  there  were  times  when  I  feared  the 
name  might  have  a  more  sinister  meaning.     So  my 

♦In  the  Pacific  Ocean  just  north  of  the  Fiji  group. 


84  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

craft  was  named  before  I  put  her  down  on  paper.  She 
must  be  large  enough  to  hold  me  and  my  outfit  and  yet 
light  enough  so  that  alone  I  could  drag  her  up  any  un- 
inhabited beach  where  I  might  land.  Most  important 
of  all,  she  must  be  seaworthy  in  the  real  sense  of  the 
word,  for  between  the  islands  I  should  be  at  sea  with 
no  lee  for  fifteen  hundred  miles.  I  got  all  this  in  a 
length  of  seventeen  feet  and  a  width  of  thirty-nine 
inches.  From  a  plan  of  two  dimensions  on  paper  she 
grew  to  a  form  of  three  dimensions  in  a  little  shop  in 
Boothbay  and  later,  as  you  shall  hear,  exhibited  a 
fourth  dimension  as  she  gyrated  in  the  seas  off  Kick 
'em  Jinny.  The  finished  hull  weighed  less  than  her 
skipper — one  hundred  and  forty-seven  pounds. 

From  a  study  of  the  pilot  chart,  I  found  that  a  pre- 
vailing northeast  trade-wind  blows  for  nine  months  in 
the  year  throughout  the  Lesser  Antilles.  According 
to  the  "square  rigger,"  this  trade  blows  "fresh,"  which 
means  half  a  gale  to  the  harbour-hunting  yachtsman. 
Instead  of  sailing  down  the  wind  from  the  north,  I 
decided  to  avoid  the  anxiety  of  following  seas  and  to 
beat  into  the  wind  from  the  lowest  island  which  is 
Grenada,  just  north  of  Trinidad. 

My  first  plan  was  to  ship  on  a  whaler  bound  on  a 
long  voyage.  From  Barbados,  where  she  would  touch 
to  pick  up  crew,  I  would  sail  the  ninety  miles  to  lee- 
ward to  Grenada.  A  wise  Providence  saw  to  it  that 
there  was  no  whaler  bound  on  a  long  voyage  for 
months.  I  did  find  a  British  trading  steamer  bound 
out  of  New  York  for  Grenada.  She  had  no  passenger 
license,  but  it  was  my  only  chance,  and  I  signed  on 
as  A.  B. 


THE   YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS    25 

We  left  New  York  on  one  of  those  brilliant  days  of 
January  when  the  keen  northwest  wind  has  swept  the 
haze  from  the  atmosphere  leaving  the  air  clear  as 
crystal.  It  was  cold  but  I  stood  with  a  bravado  air  on 
the  grating  over  the  engine  room  hatch  from  which 
the  warm  air  from  the  boilers  rose  through  my  clothes. 
Below  me  on  the  dock  and  fast  receding  beyond  yelling 
distance  stood  a  friend  who  had  come  to  bid  me  good- 
bye. By  his  side  was  a  large  leather  bag  containing 
the  heavy  winter  clothing  I  had  sloughed  only  a  few 
minutes  before.  The  warmth  of  my  body  would  still 
be  in  them,  I  thought,  as  the  warmth  clings  to  a  hearth 
of  a  winter's  evening  for  a  time  after  the  fire  has  gone 
out.  In  a  day  we  should  be  in  the  Gulf  Stream  and 
then  for  half  a  year  I  should  wear  just  enough  to  pro- 
tect me  from  the  sun.  Suddenly  the  tremble  of  the 
steamer  told  me  of  an  engine  turning  up  more  revolu- 
tions and  of  a  churning  propeller.  The  dock  was  no 
longer  receding,  we  were  leaving  it  behind.  The  mad 
scramble  of  the  last  days  in  New  York ;  the  hasty  break- 
fast of  that  morning;  the  antique  musty-smelling  cab 
with  its  pitifully  ambling  horse,  uncurried  and  furry  in 
the  frosty  air,  driven  by  a  whisky-smelling  jehu;  the 
catching  of  the  ferry  by  a  narrow  margin,  were  of  a 
past  left  far  behind.  Far  out  in  the  channel,  that  last 
tentacle  of  civilisation,  the  pilot,  bade  us  "good  luck" 
and  then  he  also  became  of  the  Past.  The  Present  was 
the  vibrating  tramp  beneath  my  feet  and  the  Future 
lay  on  our  course  to  the  South. 

On  the  top  of  the  cargo  in  the  forehold  was  the 
crated  hull  of  the  Yakaboo,  the  pretty  little  "mahogany 
coffin,"  as  they  named  her,  that  was  going  to  carry  me 


26  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

through  five  hundred  miles  of  the  most  delightful  deep 
sea  sailing  one  can  imagine.  I  did  not  know  that  the 
Pilot  Book  makes  little  mention  of  the  "tricks  of  the 
trades"  as  they  strike  the  Caribbean,  and  that  instead  of 
climbing  up  and  sliding  down  the  backs  of  Atlantic  rol- 
lers with  an  occasional  smother  of  foam  on  top  to 
match  the  fleecy  summer  clouds,  I  would  be  pounded 
and  battered  in  short  channel  seas  and  that  for  only 
thirty  of  the  five  hundred  miles  would  my  decks  be 
clear  of  water.  It  is  the  bliss  of  ignorance  that  tempts 
the  fool,  but  it  is  he  who  sees  the  wonders  of  the  earth. 

The  next  day  we  entered  the  Gulf  Stream  where  we 
were  chased  by  a  Northeaster  which  lifted  the  short 
trader  along  with  a  wondrous  corkscrew  motion  that 
troubled  no  one  but  the  real  passengers — a  load  of 
Missouri  mules  doomed  to  end  their  lives  hauling  pitch 
in  Trinidad. 

On  the  eighth  day,  at  noon,  we  spoke  the  lonely 
island  of  Sombrero  with  its  lighthouse  and  black  keep- 
ers whose  only  company  is  the  passing  steamer.  The 
man  at  the  wheel  ported  his  helm  a  spoke  and  we 
steamed  between  Saba  and  Statia  to  lose  sight  of  land 
for  another  day — my  first  in  the  Caribbean.  The 
warm  trade-wind,  the  skittering  of  flying-fish  chased  by 
tuna  or  the  swift  dorade,  and  the  rigging  of  awnings 
proclaimed  that  we  were  now  well  within  the  tropics. 
The  next  morning  I  awoke  with  the  uneasy  feeling  that 
all  motion  had  ceased  and  that  we  were  now  lying  in 
smooth  water.  I  stepped  on  deck  in  my  pajamas  to 
feel  for  the  first  time  the  soft  pressure  of  the  tepid 
morning  breeze  of  the  islands. 

We  lay  under  the  lee  of  a  high  island  whose  green 


THE   YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS     27 

mass  rose,  surf-fringed,  from  the  deep  blue  of  the  Car- 
ibbean to  the  deep  blue  of  the  morning  sky  with  its 
white  clouds  forever  coming  up  from  behind  the  moun- 
tains and  sailing  away  to  the  westward.  Off  our  port 
bow  the  grey  buildings  of  a  coast  town  spread  out 
along  the  shores  and  crept  up  the  sides  of  a  hill  like 
lichen  on  a  rock.  From  the  sonorous  bell  in  a  church 
tower  came  seven  deep  notes  which  spread  out  over 
the  waters  like  a  benediction.  There  was  no  sign  of 
a  jetty  or  landing  place,  not  even  the  usual  small  ship- 
ping or  even  a  steamer  buoy,  and  I  was  wondering  in 
a  sleepy  way  where  we  should  land  when  a  polite  Eng- 
lish voice  broke  in,  "We  are  justly  proud  of  the  beau- 
tiful harbour  which  you  are  to  see  for  the  first  time  I 
take  it." 

I  fetched  up  like  a  startled  rabbit  to  behold  a  "West 
Indie"  gentleman  standing  behind  me,  "starched  from 
clew  to  earing"  as  Captain  Slocum  put  it,  and  speaking 
a  better  English  than  you  or  I.  It  was  the  harbour- 
master. I  was  now  sufficiently  awake  to  recall  from 
my  chart  that  the  harbour  of  St.  George's  is  almost 
land-locked.  As  we  stood  and  talked,  the  clanking 
windlass  lifted  our  stockless  anchor  with  its  load  of 
white  coral  sand  and  the  steamer  slowly  headed  for 
shore. 

The  land  under  a  rusty  old  fort  seemed  to  melt  away 
before  our  bows  and  we  slipped  through  into  the 
carenage  of  St.  George's.  We  crept  in  till  we  filled  the 
basin  like  a  toy  ship  in  a  miniature  harbour.  From  the 
bridge  I  was  looking  down  upon  a  bit  of  the  old  world 
in  strange  contrast,  as  my  memory  swung  back  across 
two  thousand  miles  of  Atlantic,  to  the  uncouth  towns 


28  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

of  our  north.  The  houses,  with  their  jalousied  win- 
dows, some  of  them  white  but  more  often  washed  with 
a  subdued  orange  or  yellow,  were  of  the  French  re- 
gime, their  weathered  red  tile  roofs  in  pleasing  con- 
trast to  the  strong  green  of  the  surrounding  hills. 

Here  in  the  old  days,  ships  came  to  be  careened  in 
order  to  rid  their  bottoms  of  the  dread  teredo.  Under 
our  forefoot,  in  the  innermost  corner  of  the  harbour,  pi- 
rate ships  were  wont  to  lie,  completely  hidden  from  the 
view  of  the  open  sea.  At  one  time  this  was  a  hornet's 
nest,  unmolested  by  the  bravest,  for  who  would  run 
into  such  a  cul-de-sac  protected  as  it  was  by  the  forts 
and  batteries  on  the  hills  above  ? 

Moored  stern-to  along  the  quays,  was  a  fleet  of  small 
trading  sloops,  shabby  in  rig  and  crude  of  build,  wait- 
ing for  cargoes  from  our  hold.  Crawling  slowly  across 
the  harbour  under  the  swinging  impulse  of  long  sweeps, 
was  a  drogher  piled  high  with  bags  of  cocoa,  a  huge- 
bodied  bug  with  feeble  legs. 

Along  the  mole  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  carenage 
straggled  an  assortment  of  small  wooden  shacks,  one 
and  two-storied,  scarcely  larger  than  play  houses. 
Among  these  my  eyes  came  to  rest  on  something  which 
was  at  once  familiar.  There  stood  a  small  cotton  gin- 
nery with  shingled  roof  and  open  sides,  an  exact  coun- 
terpart of  a  corn-crib.  I  did  not  then  know  that  in  this 
shed  I  should  spend  most  of  my  days  while  in  St. 
George's. 

The  blast  of  our  deep-throated  whistle  stirred  the 
town  into  activity  as  a  careless  kick  swarms  an  ant-hill 
with  life,  and  the  busy  day  of  the  quay  began  as  we 
were  slowly  warped-in  to  our  dock. 


THE   YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS    29 

A  last  breakfast  with  the  Captain  and  Mate — and 
I  was  ashore  with  my  trunk  and  gear.  The  Yakaboo, 
a  mere  toy  in  the  clutch  of  the  cargo  boom,  was  yanked 
swiftly  out  of  the  hold  and  lightly  placed  on  the  quay 
where  she  was  picked  up  and  carried  into  the  custom- 
house by  a  horde  of  yelling  blacks.  Knowing  no  man, 
I  stood  there  for  a  moment  feeling  that  I  had  suddenly 
been  dropped  into  a  different  world.  But  it  was  only 
a  different  world  because  I  did  not  know  it  and  as  for 
knowing  no  man — I  soon  found  that  I  had  become  a 
member  of  a  community  of  colonial  Englishmen  who 
received  me  with  open  arms  and  put  to  shame  any  hos- 
pitality I  had  hitherto  experienced.  As  the  nature  of 
my  visit  became  known,  I  was  given  all  possible  aid  in 
preparing  for  my  voyage.  A  place  to  tune  up  the 
Yakaboo  f  A  young  doctor  who  owned  the  little  gin- 
nery on  the  far  side  of  the  carenage  gave  me  the  key 
and  told  me  to  use  it  as  long  as  I  wished. 

I  now  found  that  the  cruise  I  had  planned  was  not 
altogether  an  easy  one.  According  to  the  pilot  chart 
for  the  North  Atlantic,  by  the  little  blue  wind-rose  in 
the  region  of  the  lower  Antilles,  or  Windward  Islands 
as  they  are  called,  I  should  find  the  trade  blowing  from 
east  to  northeast  with  a  force  of  four,  which  accord- 
ing to  Beaufort's  scale  means  a  moderate  breeze  of 
twenty-three  miles  an  hour.  Imagine  my  surprise, 
therefore,  when  I  found  that  the  wind  seldom  blew 
less  than  twenty  miles  an  hour  and  very  often  blew  a 
whole  gale  of  sixty-five  miles  an  hour.  Moreover,  at 
this  season  of  the  year,  I  found  that  the  "trade"  would 
be   inclined  to   the    northward   and   that  my   course 


30  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

through  the  Grenadines — the  first  seventy  miles  of  my 
cruise — would  be  directly  into  the  wind's  eye. 

I  had  been  counting  on  that  magical  figure  (30)  in 
the  circle  of  the  wind-rose,  which  means  that  for  every 
thirty  hours  out  of  a  hundred  one  may  here  expect 
"calms,  light  airs,  and  variables."  Not  only  this,  but 
I  was  informed  that  I  should  encounter  a  westerly  tide 
current  which  at  times  ran  as  high  as  six  knots  an 
hour.  To  be  sure,  this  tide  current  would  change  every 
six  hours  to  an  easterly  set  which,  though  it  would  be 
in  my  favour,  would  kick  up  a  sea  that  would  shake  the 
wind  out  of  my  sails  and  almost  bring  my  canoe  to  a 
stand-still. 

Nor  was  this  all.  The  sea  was  full  of  sharks  and 
I  was  told  that  if  the  seas  did  not  get  me  the  sharks 
would.  Seven  inches  of  freeboard  is  a  small  obstacle 
to  a  fifteen-foot  shark.  Had  the  argument  stopped 
with  these  three  I  would  at  this  point  gladly  have  pre- 
sented my  canoe  to  His  Excellency  the  Governor,  so 
that  he  might  plant  it  on  his  front  lawn  and  grow 
geraniums  in  the  cockpit.  Three  is  an  evil  number  if 
it  is  against  you  but  a  fourth  argument  came  along  and 
the  magic  triad  was  broken.  If  seas,  currents,  and 
sharks  did  not  get  me,  I  would  be  overcome  by  the 
heat  and  be  fever-stricken. 

I  slept  but  lightly  that  first  night  on  shore.  Instead 
of  being  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  squalls  which  blew 
down  from  the  mountains,  I  would  find  myself  leaning 
far  out  over  the  edge  of  the  bed  trying  to  keep  from 
being  capsized  by  an  impending  comber.  Finally  my 
imagination  having  reached  the  climax  of  its  fiendish 
trend,  I  reasoned  calmly  to  myself.     If  I  would  sail 


THE  YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS    31 

from  island  to  island  after  the  manner  of  the  Carib, 
why  not  seek  out  the  native  and  learn  the  truth  from 
him?  The  next  morning  I  found  my  man,  with  the 
blood  of  the  Yaribai  tribe  of  Africa  in  him,  who  knew 
the  winds,  currents,  sharks,  the  heat,  and  the  fever. 
He  brought  to  me  the  only  Carib  on  the  island,  a  boy 
of  sixteen  who  had  fled  to  Grenada  after  the  eruption 
in  Saint  Vincent  had  destroyed  his  home  and  family. 

From  these  two  I  learned  the  secret  of  the  winds 
which  depend  on  the  phases  of  the  moon.  They  told 
me  to  set  sail  on  the  slack  of  the  lee  tide  and  cover 
my  distance  before  the  next  lee  tide  ran  strong.  They 
pointed  out  the  fever  beaches  I  should  avoid  and  told 
me  not  to  bathe  during  the  day,  nor  to  uncover  my 
head — even  to  wipe  my  brow.  I  must  never  drink  my 
water  cold  and  always  put  a  little  rum  in  it — and  a 
hundred  other  things  which  I  did  not  forget.  As  for 
the  "shyark" — "You  no  troble  him,  he  no  bodder  you." 
"Troble"  was  used  in  the  sense  of  tempt  and  I  should 
therefore  never  throw  food  scraps  overboard  or  troll 
a  line  astern.  I  also  learned — this  from  an  English- 
man who  had  served  in  India — that  if  I  wore  a  red 
cloth,  under  my  shirt,  covering  my  spine,  the  actinic 
rays  of  the  sun  would  be  stopped  and  I  should  not  be 
bothered  by  the  heat. 

It  was  with  a  lighter  heart,  then,  that  I  set  about  to 
rig  my  canoe — she  was  yet  to  be  baptized — and  to  lick 
my  outfit  into  shape  for  the  long  cruise  to  the  north- 
ward. I  could  not  have  wished  for  a  better  place  than 
the  cool  ginnery  which  the  doctor  had  put  at  my  dis- 
posal. Here  with  my  Man  Friday,  I  worked  through 
the  heat  of  the  day — we  might  have  been  out  of  doors 


m  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

for  the  soft  winds  from  the  hills  filtered  through  the 
open  sides,  bringing  with  them  the  dank  odour  of  the 
moist  earth  under  shaded  cocoa  groves.  Crowded 
about  the  wide-open  doors  like  a  flock  of  strange  sea 
fowl,  a  group  of  black  boatmen  made  innumerable  com- 
ments in  their  bubbling  patois,  while  their  eyes  were 
on  my  face  in  continual  scrutiny. 

And  now,  while  I  stop  in  the  middle  of  the  hot  af- 
ternoon to  eat  delicious  sponge  cakes  and  drink  nu- 
merous glasses  of  sorrel  that  have  mysteriously  found 
their  way  from  a  little  hut  near  by,  it  might  not  be  amiss 
to  contemplate  the  Yakaboo  through  the  sketchy  haze 
of  a  pipeful  of  tobacco.  She  did  not  look  her  length 
of  seventeen  feet  and  with  her  overhangs  would 
scarcely  be  taken  for  a  boat  meant  for  serious  cruis- 
ing. Upon  close  examination,  however,  she  showed  a 
powerful  midship  section  that  was  deceiving  and  when 
the  natives  lifted  her  off  the  horses — "O  Lard!  she 
light !" — wherein  lay  the  secret  of  her  ability.  Her 
heaviest  construction  was  in  the  middle  third  which 
embodied  fully  half  of  her  total  weight.  With  her 
crew  and  the  heavier  part  of  the  outfit  stowed  in  this 
middle  third  she  was  surprisingly  quick  in  a  seaway. 
With  a  breaking  sea  coming  head  on,  her  bow  would 
ride  the  foamy  crest  while  her  stern  would  drop  into 
the  hollow  behind,  offering  little  resistance  to  the  rising 
bow. 

She  had  no  rudder,  the  steering  being  done  entirely 
by  the  handling  of  the  main  sheet.  By  a  novel  con- 
struction of  the  center-board  and  the  well  in  which  the 
board  rolled  forward  and  aft  on  sets  of  sheaves,  I  could 
place  the  center  of  lateral  resistance  of  the  canoe's  un- 


THE  YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS    33 

derbody  exactly  below  the  center  of  effort  of  the  sails 
with  the  result  that  on  a  given  course  she  would  sail 
herself.  Small  deviations  such  as  those  caused  by  waves 
throwing  her  bow  to  leeward  or  sudden  puffs  that 
tended  to  make  her  luff  were  compensated  for  by  eas- 
ing off  or  trimming  in  the  mainsheet.  In  the  absence 
of  the  rudder-plane  aft,  which  at  times  is  a  consider- 
able drag  to  a  swinging  stern,  this  type  of  canoe  eats 
her  way  to  windward  in  every  squall,  executing  a  "pi- 
lot's luff"  without  loss  of  headway,  and  in  puffy  weather 
will  actually  fetch  slightly  to  windward  of  her  course, 
having  more  than  overcome  her  drift. 

She  was  no  new  or  untried  freak  for  I  had  already 
cruised  more  than  a  thousand  miles  in  her  predecessor, 
the  only  difference  being  that  the  newer  boat  was  nine 
inches  greater  in  beam.  On  account  of  the  increased 
beam  it  was  necessary  to  use  oars  instead  of  the  custo- 
mary double  paddle.  I  made  her  wider  in  order  to 
have  a  stiffer  boat  and  thus  lessen  the  bodily  fatigue 
in  sailing  the  long  channel  runs. 

She  was  divided  into  three  compartments  of  nearly 
equal  length — the  forward  hold,  the  cockpit,  and  the 
afterhold.  The  two  end  compartments  were  acces- 
sible through  watertight  hatches  within  easy  reach  of 
the  cockpit.  The  volume  of  the  cockpit  was  diminished 
by  one  half  by  means  of  a  watertight  floor  raised  above 
the  waterline — like  the  main-deck  of  a  ship.  This  floor 
was  fitted  with  circular  metal  hatches  through  which 
I  could  stow  the  heavier  parts  of  my  outfit  in  the  hold 
underneath.  The  cockpit  proper  extended  for  a  length 
of  a  little  over  six  feet  between  bulkheads  so  that  when 
occasion  demanded  I  could  sleep  in  the  canoe. 


34  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

Her  rig  consisted  of  two  fore  and  aft  sails  of  the 
canoe  type  and  a  small  jib. 

An  increasing  impatience  to  open  the  Pandora's  Box 
which  was  waiting  for  me,  hurried  the  work  of  prepa- 
ration and  in  two  weeks  I  was  ready  to  start.  The 
Colonial  Treasurer  gave  me  a  Bill  of  Health  for  the 
Yakaboo  as  for  any  ship  and  one  night  I  laid  out  my 
sea  clothes  and  packed  my  trunk  to  follow  me  as  best 
it  could. 

On  the  morning  of  February  ninth  I  carried  my  out- 
fit down  to  the  quay  in  a  drizzle.  An  inauspicious  day 
for  starting  on  a  cruise  I  thought.  My  Man  Friday, 
who  had  evidently  read  my  thoughts,  hastened  to  tell 
me  that  this  was  only  a  little  "cocoa  shower."  Even 
as  I  got  the  canoe  alongside  the  quay  the  sun  broke 
through  the  cloud  bank  on  the  hill  tops  and  as  the  rain 
ceased  the  small  crowd  which  had  assembled  to  see 
me  off  came  out  from  the  protection  of  doorways  as 
I  proceeded  to  stow  the  various  parts  of  my  nomadic 
home.  Into  the  forward  compartment  went  the  tent 
like  a  reluctant  green  caterpillar,  followed  by  the  pegs, 
sixteen  pounds  of  tropical  bacon,  my  cooking  pails  and 
the  "butterfly,"  a  powerful  little  gasoline  stove.  Into 
the  after  compartment  disappeared  more  food,  clothes, 
two  cans  of  fresh  water,  fuel  for  the  "butterfly,"  films 
in  sealed  tins,  developing  outfit  and  chemicals,  ammu- 
nition, and  that  most  sacred  of  all  things — the  ditty 
bag. 

Under  the  cockpit  floor  I  stowed  paint,  varnish,  and 
a  limited  supply  of  tinned  food,  all  of  it  heavy  and 
excellent  ballast  in  the  right  place.  My  blankets,  in 
a  double  oiled  bag,  were  used  in  the  cockpit  as  a  seat 


.'<  •   "  c 


THE  YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS    35 

when  rowing.  Here  I  also  carried  two  compasses,  an 
axe,  my  camera,  and  a  chart-case  with  my  portfolio 
and  log.  I  had  also  a  high-powered  rifle  and  a  Colt's 
thirty-eight-forty. 

With  all  her  load,  the  Yakaboo  sat  on  the  water  as 
jaunty  as  ever.  The  golden  brown  of  her  varnished 
topsides  and  deck,  her  green  boot-top  and  white  sails 
made  her  as  inviting  a  craft  as  I  had  ever  stepped  into. 

I  bade  good-bye  to  the  men  I  had  come  to  know  as 
friends  and  with  a  shove  the  canoe  and  I  were  clear  of 
the  quay.  The  new  clean  sails  hung  from  their  spars 
for  a  moment  like  the  unprinted  leaves  of  a  book  and 
then  a  gentle  puff  came  down  from  the  hills,  rippled 
the  glassy  waters  of  the  carenage  and  grew  into  a 
breeze  which  caught  the  canoe  and  we  were  sailing 
northward  on  the  weather  tide.  I  have  come  into  the 
habit  of  saying  "we,"  for  next  to  a  dog  or  a  horse 
there  is  no  companionship  like  that  of  a  small  boat. 
The  smaller  a  boat  the  more  animation  she  has  and 
as  for  a  canoe,  she  is  not  only  a  thing  of  life  but  is  a 
being  of  whims  and  has  a  sense  of  humour.  Have  you 
ever  seen  a  cranky  canoe  unburden  itself  of  an  awk- 
ward novice  and  then  roll  from  side  to  side  in  uncon- 
trollable mirth,  having  shipped  only  a  bare  teacupful 
of  water?  Even  after  one  has  become  the  master  of 
his  craft  there  is  no  dogged  servility  and  she  will  balk 
and  kick  up  her  heels  like  a  skittish  colt.  I  have  often 
"scended"  on  the  face  of  a  mountainous  following  sea 
with  an  exhilaration  that  made  me  whoop  for  joy, 
only  to  have  the  canoe  whisk  about  in  the  trough  and 
look  me  in  the  face  as  if  to  say,  "You  fool,  did  you 
want  me  to  go  through  the  next  one?"     Let  a  canoe 


36  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

feel  that  you  are  afraid  of  her  and  she  will  become  your 
master  with  the  same  intuition  that  leads  a  thorough- 
bred to  take  advantage  of  the  tremor  he  feels  through 
the  reins.  At  every  puff  she  will  forget  to  sail  and 
will  heel  till  her  decks  are  under.  Hold  her  down 
firmly,  speak  encouragingly,  stroke  her  smooth  sides 
and  she  will  fly  through  a  squall  without  giving  an  inch. 
We  were  already  acquainted  for  I  had  twice  had  her 
out  on  trial  spins  and  we  agreed  upon  friendship  as  our 
future  status. 

It  has  always  been  my  custom  to  go  slow  for  the  first 
few  days  of  a  cruise,  a  policy  especially  advisable  in 
the  tropics.  After  a  morning  of  delightful  coasting 
past  the  green  hills  of  Grenada,  touched  here  and  there 
with  the  crimson  flamboyant  like  wanton  splashes  from 
the  brush  of  an  impressionist,  and  occasional  flights 
over  shoals  that  shone  white,  brown,  yellow  and  copper 
through  the  clear  bluish  waters,  I  hauled  the  Yakaboo 
up  on  the  jetty  of  the  picturesque  little  coast  town  of 
Goyave  and  here  I  loafed  through  the  heat  of  the  day 
in  the  cool  barracks  of  the  native  constabulary.  I 
spent  the  night  on  the  hard  canvas  cot  in  the  Rest 
Room. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  that  the  lid  of  Pandora's 
Box  sprang  open  and  the  imps  came  out.  My  log 
reads:  "After  beating  for  two  hours  into  a  stiff  wind 
that  came  directly  down  the  shore,  I  found  that  the 
canoe  was  sinking  by  the  head  and  evidently  leaking 
badly  in  the  forward  compartment.  Distance  from 
shore  one  mile.  The  water  was  pouring  in  through  the 
centerboard  well  and  I  discovered  that  the  bailing 
plugs  in  the  cockpit  floor  were  useless  so  that  she  re- 


THE   YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS    37 

tained  every  drop  that  she  shipped.  I  decided  not  to 
attempt  bailing  and  made  for  shore  with  all  speed. 
Made  Duquesne  Point  at  n  A.  M.,  where  the  canoe 
sank  in  the  small  surf." 

She  lay  there  wallowing  like  a  contented  pig  while 
I  stepped  out  on  the  beach.  "Well!"  she  seemed  to 
say,  "I  brought  you  ashore — do  you  want  me  to  walk 
up  the  beach  ?"  A  loaded  canoe,  full  of  water  and 
with  her  decks  awash,  is  as  obstinate  as  a  mother-in- 
law  who  has  come  for  the  summer — and  I  swore. 

My  outfit,  for  the  most  part,  was  well  protected  in 
the  oiled  bags  which  I  had  made.  It  was  not  shaken 
down  to  a  working  basis,  however,  and  I  found  a 
quantity  of  dried  cranberries  in  a  cotton  bag — a  sod- 
den mass  of  red.  With  a  yank  of  disgust,  I  heaved 
them  over  my  shoulder  and  they  landed  with  a  grunt. 
Turning  around  I  saw  a  six-foot  black  with  a  round 
red  pattern  on  the  bosom  of  his  faded  cotton  shirt, 
wondering  what  it  was  all  about.  I  smiled  and  he 
laughed  while  the  loud  guffaws  of  a  crowd  of  natives 
broke  the  tension  of  their  long  silence.  The  West 
Indian  native  has  an  uncomfortable  habit  of  appearing 
suddenly  from  nowhere  and  he  is  especially  fond  of 
following  a  few  paces  behind  one  on  a  lonely  road. 
As  for  being  able  to  talk  to  these  people,  I  might  as 
well  have  been  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  Africa  and 
tried  to  hold  discourse  with  their  ancestors.  But  the 
men  understood  my  trouble  and  carried  my  canoe 
ashore  where  I  could  rub  beeswax  into  a  seam  which 
had  opened  wickedly  along  her  forefoot. 

Picturing  a  speedy  luncheon  over  the  buzzing  little 
"butterfly"  I  lifted  it  off  its  cleats  in  the  forward  com- 


38  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

partment,  only  to  find  that  its  arms  were  broken.  The 
shifting  of  the  outfit  in  the  seaway  off  shore  had  put 
the  stove  out  of  commission.  I  was  now  in  a  land 
where  only  woodworking  tools  were  known  so  that  any 
repairs  were  out  of  the  question.  I  was  also  in  a  land 
where  the  sale  of  gasoline  was  prohibited.* 

My  one  gallon  of  gasoline  would  in  time  have  been 
exhausted,  a  philosophical  thought  which  somewhat 
lessened  the  sense  of  my  disappointment.  And  let  this 
be  a  lesson  to  all  travellers  in  strange  countries — follow 
the  custom  of  the  country  in  regard  to  fires  and  cook- 
ing. The  breaking  of  the  "butterfly*'  only  hastened  my 
acquaintance  with  the  delightful  mysteries  of  the  "coal- 
pot."  Wood  fires  are  but  little  used  in  these  islands 
for  drift-wood  is  scarce  and  the  green  wood  is  so  full 
of  moisture  that  it  can  with  difficulty  be  made  to  burn. 
Up  in  the  hills  the  carbonari  make  an  excellent  char- 
coal from  the  hard  woods  of  the  tropical  forests  and 
this  is  burned  in  an  iron  or  earthen-ware  brazier  known 
as  the  coal-pot. 

By  means  of  the  sign  language,  which  consisted 
chiefly  in  rubbing  my  stomach  with  one  hand  while 
with  the  other  I  put  imaginary  food  into  my  mouth, 
the  natives  understood  my  need  and  I  soon  had  one  of 
my  little  pails  bubbling  over  a  glowing  coal-pot. 

The  promise  of  rain  warned  me  to  put  up  my  tent 
although  I  could  have  been  no  wetter  than  I  was. 
Food,  a  change  of  dry  clothes  and  a  pipe  of  tobacco 
will  work  wonders  at  a  time  like  this  and  as  I  sat  in 
my  tent  watching  the   drizzle  pock-mark  the   sands 

*  On  account  of  the  danger  of  its  use  in  the  hands  of  careless 
natives. 


—,  «*».«. 


•  * 

•  I 
«  t 


THE   YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS    39 

outside,  I  began  to  feel  that  things  might  not  be  so  bad 
after  all.  This,  however,  was  one  of  those  nasty 
fever  beaches  against  which  my  Man  Friday  had 
warned  me,  so  that  with  the  smiling  of  the  sun  at  three 
o'clock,  I  was  afloat  again.  The  Yakaboo  had  been 
bullied  into  some  semblance  of  tightness.  By  rowing 
close  along  shore  we  reached  Tangalanga  Point  with- 
out taking  up  much  water. 


-■ — n-T.-i -»-»-> -it 


t=F^ 


-i'-JJ,'-'.  i^.  ^J-i.^.. 


1 
1 
r 

J 

i 

i 

i 
i 
• 

^ 


Iron  Coal-Pot  of  the  West  Indies 

I  was  now  at  the  extreme  northern  end  of  Grenada 
and  could  see  the  Grenadines  that  I  should  come  to 
know  so  well  stretching  away  to  windward.*  They 
rose,  mountain  peaks  out  of  the  intense  blue  of  the  sea, 
picturesque  but  not  inviting.  As  I  looked  across  the 
channel,  whitened  by  the  trade-wind  which  was  blow- 
ing a  gale,  I  wondered  whether  after  all  I  had  under- 
estimated the  Caribbean.    Sauteurs  lay  some  two  miles 

♦In  these  parts  northeast  and  windward  are  synonymous,  also 
southwest  and  leeward. 


40  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

around  the  point  and  I  now  set  sail  for  the  first  time 
in  the  open  sea. 

In  my  anxiety  lest  the  canoe  should  fill  again  I  ran 
too  close  to  the  weather  side  of  the  point  and  was  caught 
in  a  combing  sea  which  made  the  Yakaboo  gasp  for 
breath.  She  must  have  heard  the  roar  of  the  wicked 
surf  under  her  lee  for  she  shouldered  the  green  seas 
from  her  deck  and  staggered  along  with  her  cockpit  full 
of  water  till  we  were  at  last  safe,  bobbing  up  and  down 
in  the  heavy  swell  behind  the  reef  off  Sauteurs.  The 
surf  was  breaking  five  feet  high  on  the  beach  and  I 
dared  not  land  even  at  the  jetty  for  fear  of  smashing 
the  canoe. 

A  figure  on  the  jetty  motioned  to  a  sloop  which  I 
ran  alongside.  The  outfit  was  quickly  transferred  to 
the  larger  boat  and  the  canoe  tailed  off  with  a  long 
scope  of  line.  In  the  meantime  a  whaleboat  was  bob- 
bing alongside  and  I  jumped  aboard.  As  we  rose 
close  to  the  jetty  on  a  big  sea,  a  dozen  arms  reached 
out  like  the  tentacles  of  an  octopus  and  pulled  me  up 
into  their  mass  while  the  whaleboat  dropped  from 
under  me  into  the  hollow  of  the  sea. 

Whatever  my  misfortunes  may  be,  there  is  always 
a  law  of  compensation  which  is  as  infallible  as  that  of 
Gravity.  One  of  those  arms  which  pulled  me  up  be- 
longed to  Jack  Wildman,  a  Scotch  cocoa  buyer  who 
owned  a  whaling  station  on  lle-de-Caille,  the  first  of 
the  Grenadines.  By  the  time  we  reached  the  cocoa 
shop  near  the  end  of  the  jetty  the  matter  was  already 
arranged.  Jack  would  send  for  his  whalers  to  convoy 
me  to  his  island  and  there  I  could  stay  as  long  as  I 
wished.     The  island,  he  told  me,  was  healthy  and  I 


THE   YAKABOO  IS  BORN— CRUISE  BEGINS    41 

could  live  apart  from  the  whalers  undisturbed  in  the 
second  story  of  his  little  whaling  shack.  Here  I  could 
overhaul  my  outfit  when  I  did  not  care  to  go  chasing 
humpbacks,  and  under  the  thatched  roof  of  the  try- 
works  I  could  prepare  my  canoe  in  dead  earnest  for 
the  fight  I  should  have  through  the  rest  of  the  islands. 
That  night  I  slept  on  the  stiff  canvas  cot  in  the  Rest 
Room  of  the  police  station — a  room  which  is  reserved 
by  the  Government  for  the  use  of  travelling  officials, 
for  there  are  no  hotels  or  lodging  houses  in  these  parts. 
From  where  I  lay,  I  could  look  out  upon  the  channel 
bathed  in  the  strong  tropical  moonlight.  The  trade 
which  is  supposed  to  drop  at  sunset  blew  fresh  through- 
out the  night  and  by  raising  my  head  I  could  see  the 
gleam  of  white  caps.  For  the  first  time  I  heard  that 
peculiar  swish  of  palm  tops  which  sounds  like  the  pat- 
tering of  rain.  Palmer,  a  member  of  the  revenue  ser- 
vice, who  had  come  into  my  room  in  his  pajamas,  ex- 
plained to  me  that  the  low  driving  mist  which  I  thought 
was  fog  was  in  reality  spindrift  carried  into  the  air 
from  the  tops  of  the  seas.  My  thoughts  went  to  the 
Yakaboo  bobbing  easily  at  the  end  of  her  long  line 
in  the  open  roadstead.  All  the  philosophy  of  small 
boat  sailing  came  back  to  me  and  I  fell  asleep  with 
the  feeling  that  she  would  carry  me  safely  through 
the  boisterous  seas  of  the  Grenadine  channel. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE 

THERE  were  thirteen  of  them  when  I  landed  on 
lle-de-Caille — the  twelve  black  whalemen  who 
manned  the  boats  and  the  negress  who  did  the  cook- 
ing— and  they  looked  upon  me  with  not  a  little  sus- 
picion. 

What  manner  of  man  was  this  who  sailed  alone  in  a 
canoe  he  could  almost  carry  on  his  back,  fearing  neither 
sea  nor  jumbie,  the  hobgoblin  of  the  native,  and  who 
now  chose  to  live  with  them  a  while  just  to  chase 
"humpbacks"?  Jack  Wildman  was  talking  to  them 
in  their  unintelligible  patois,  a  hopeless  stew  of  early 
French  and  English  mixed  with  Portuguese,  when  I 
turned  to  Jose  Olivier  and  explained  that  now  with 
fourteen  on  the  island  the  spell  of  bad  luck  which  had 
been  with  them  from  the  beginning  of  the  season  would 
end.  The  tone  of  my  voice  rather  than  what  I  said  re- 
assured him. 

"Aal  roit,"  he  said,  "you  go  stroke  in  de  A  active 
to-morrow.* ' 

Between  Grenada  and  Saint  Vincent,  the  next  large 
island  to  the  north,  lie  the  Grenadines  in  that  seventy 
miles  of  channel  where  "de  lee  an'  wedder  toid"  alter- 
nately bucks  and  pulls  the  northeast  trades  and  the 
equatorial  current,  kicking  up  a  sea  that  is  known  all 

42 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  43 

over  the  world  for  its  deviltry.  lle-de-Caille  is  the  first 
of  these. 

In  this  channel  from  January  to  May,  the  humpback 
whale,  megaptera  versabilis,  as  he  is  named  from  the 
contour  of  his  back,  loafs  on  his  way  to  the  colder 
waters  of  the  North  Atlantic.  For  years  the  New 
Bedford  whaler  has  been  lying-in  among  these  islands 
to  pick  up  crews,  and  it  is  from  him  that  the  negro  has 
learned  the  art  of  catching  the  humpback. 

While  the  humpback  is  seldom  known  to  attack  a 
boat,  shore  whaling  from  these  islands  under  the  tick- 
lish conditions  of  wind  and  current,  with  the  crude 
ballasted  boats  that  go  down  when  they  fill  and  the 
yellow  streak  of  the  native  which  is  likely  to  crop  out 
at  just  the  wrong  moment,  is  extremely  dangerous  and 
the  thought  of  it  brings  the  perspiration  to  the  ends 
of  my  fingers  as  I  write  this  story.  One  often  sees  a 
notice  like  this:  uMay  ist,  1909. — A  whaleboat  with 
a  crew  of  five  men  left  Sauteurs  for  Union  Island; 
not  since  heard  of." 

The  men  were  not  drunk,  neither  was  the  weather 
out  of  the  ordinary.  During  the  short  year  since  I 
was  with  them*  four  of  the  men  I  whaled  with  have 
been  lost  at  sea.  With  the  negro  carelessness  is  always 
a  great  factor,  but  here  the  wind  and  current  are  a  still 
greater  one.  Here  the  trade  always  seems  to  blow 
strongly  and  at  times  assumes  gale  force  "w'en  de 
moon  chyange." 

This  wind,  together  with  the  equatorial  current, 
augments  the  tide  which  twice  a  day  combs  through 
the  islands  in  some  places  as  fast  as  six  knots  an  hour. 

*This  was  written  in   1913. 


44  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

During  the  intervals  of  weather  tide  the  current  is 
stopped  somewhat,  but  a  sea  is  piled  up  which  shakes 
the  boat  as  an  angry  terrier  does  a  rat.  It  is  always 
a  fight  for  every  inch  to  windward,  and  God  help  the 
unfortunate  boat  that  is  disabled  and  carried  away 
from  the  islands  into  the  blazing  calm  fifteen  hundred 
miles  to  leeward.  For  this  reason  the  Lesser  Antilles 
from  Trinidad  to  Martinique  are  known  as  the  Wind- 
ward Islands. 

And  so  these  fellows  have  developed  a  wonderful 
ability  to  eat  their  way  to  windward  and  gain  the  help 
of  wind  and  tide  in  towing  their  huge  catches  ashore. 
Even  a  small  steamer  could  not  tow  a  dead  cow  against 
the  current,  as  I  found  out  afterward.  While  the 
humpback  is  a  "shore  whale,"  the  more  valuable 
deep-water  sperm  whale  is  also  seen  and  occasionally 
caught.  True  to  his  deep-water  instinct  he  usually 
passes  along  the  lee  of  the  islands  in  the  deeper  waters 
entirely  out  of  reach  of  the  shore  whaler  who  may  see 
his  spout  day  after  day  only  a  few  tantalising  miles 
away.  A  sperm  whale  which  by  chance  got  off  the 
track  was  actually  taken  by  the  men  at  Bequia,  who  in 
their  ignorance  threw  away  that  diseased  portion,  the 
ambergris,  which  might  have  brought  them  thousands 
of  dollars  and  kept  them  in  rum  till  the  crack  of  doom. 

As  we  stood  and  talked  with  Jose,  my  eyes  wandered 
over  the  little  whaling  cove  where  we  had  landed,  al- 
most landlocked  by  the  walls  of  fudge-like  lava  that 
bowled  up  around  it.  The  ruined  walls  of  the  cabaret, 
where  in  the  days  of  Napoleon  rich  stores  of  cotton 
and  sugar  were  kept  as  a  foil  for  the  far  richer  de- 
posit of  rum  and  tobacco  hidden  in  the  cave  on  the 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  45 

windward  side,  had  their  story  which  might  come  out 
later  with  the  persuasion  of  a  little  tobacco. 

The  tryworks,  like  vaults  above  ground  with  the 
old  iron  pots  sunk  into  their  tops,  gave  off  the  musty 
rancid  smell  of  whale  oil  that  told  of  whales  that  had 
been  caught,  while  a  line  drying  on  the  rocks,  one  end 
of  it  frayed  out  like  the  tail  of  a  horse,  told  of  a  wild 
ride  that  had  come  to  a  sudden  stop.  But  most  inter- 
esting of  all  were  the  men — African — with  here  and 
there  a  shade  of  Portuguese  and  Carib,  or  the  pure 
Yaribai,  superstitious  in  this  lazy  atmosphere  where 
the  mind  has  much  time  to  dwell  on  tales  of  jumbie  and 
lajoblesse*  moody  and  sullen  from  the  effects  of  a 
disappointing  season.  So  far  they  had  not  killed  a 
whale  and  it  was  now  the  twelfth  of  February. 

But  even  the  natives  were  becoming  uneasy  in  the 
heat  of  the  noon  and  at  a  word  from  Jose  two  of  them 
picked  up  the  canoe  and  laid  her  under  the  tryworks 
roof  while  the  rest  of  us  formed  a  caravan  with  the 
outfit  and  picked  our  way  up  the  sharp,  rocky  path  to 
the  level  above  where  the  trade  always  blows  cool. 

Here  Jack  had  built  a  little  two-storied  shack,  the 
upper  floor  of  which  he  reserved  for  his  own  use  when 
he  visited  the  island.  This  was  to  be  my  home.  The 
lower  part  was  divided  into  two  rooms  by  a  curtain 
behind  which  Jose,  as  befitting  the  captain  of  the  sta- 
tion, slept  in  a  high  bed  of  the  early  French  days.  In 
the  other  room  was  a  rough  table  where  I  could  eat 
and  write  my  log  after  a  day  in  the  whaleboats,  with 

*  The  spirits  of  negro  women  who  have  died  in  illegitimate  child- 
birth. 


46  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

the  wonderful  sunset  of  the  tropics  before  me  framed 
in  the  open  doorway. 

I  later  discovered  that  the  fractional  member  of  the 
station,  a  small  male  offshoot  of  the  Olivier  family, 
made  his  bed  on  a  pile  of  rags  under  the  table.  We 
were  really  fourteen  and  a  half.  In  another  sense  he 
reminded  me  of  the  fraction,  for  his  little  stomach — 
distended  from  much  banana  and  plantain  eating — 
protruded  like  the  half  of  a  calabash.  A  steep  stair 
led  through  a  trap  door  to  my  abode  above.  This  I 
turned  into  a  veritable  conjurer's  shop.  From  the 
spare  line  which  I  ran  back  and  forth  along  the  cross 
beams  under  the  roof,  I  hung  clothes,  bacon,  food 
bags,  camera,  guns  and  pots,  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
enormous  rats  which  overrun  the  island.  On  each 
side,  under  the  low  roof,  were  two  small  square  win- 
dows through  which,  by  stooping,  I  could,  see  the 
Caribbean.  By  one  of  these  I  shoved  the  canvas  cot 
with  its  net  to  keep  out  the  mosquitoes  and  tarantulas — 
I  scarcely  know  which  I  dreaded  most.  Bars  on  the 
inside  of  the  shutters  and  a  lock  on  the  trap  door 
served  to  keep  out  those  Ethiopian  eyes  which  feel  and 
handle  as  well  as  look. 

Near  the  shack  was  a  cabin  with  two  rooms,  one 
with  a  bunk  for  the  cook.  The  other  room  was  ut- 
terly bare  except  for  wide  shelves  around  the  sides 
where  the  whalemen  slept,  their  bed  clothing  con- 
sisting for  the  most  part  of  worn  out  cocoa  bags. 

Almost  on  a  line  between  the  cabin  and  the  shack 
stood  the  ajoupa,  a  small  hut  made  of  woven  withes, 
only  partially  roofed  over,  where  the  cook  prepared 
the  food  over  the  native  coal-pots.     As  I  looked  at  it, 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  47 

I  thought  of  the  similar  huts  in  which  Columbus  found 
the  grewsome  cannibal  cookery  of  the  Caribs  when 
he  landed  on  Guadeloupe.  A  strange  place  to  be  in,  I 
thought,  with  only  the  Scotch  face  of  Jack  and  the 
familiar  look  of  my  own  duffle  to  remind  me  of  the 
civilisation  whence  I  had  come.  And  even  stranger  if 
I  had  known  that  later  in  one  of  these  very  islands  I 
should  find  a  descendant  of  the  famous  St.  Hilaire 
family  still  ruling  under  a  feudal  system  the  land  where 
her  ancestors  lived  like  princes  in  the  days  when  one 
of  them  was  a  companion  of  the  Empress  Josephine. 

Even  our  meal  was  strange  as  we  sat  by  the  open 
doorway  and  watched  the  swift  currents  eddy  around 
the  island,  cutting  their  way  past  the  smoother  water 
under  the  rocks.  The  jack-fish,  not  unlike  the  perch 
caught  in  colder  waters,  was  garnished  with  the  hot 
little  "West  Indie"  peppers  that  burn  the  tongue  like 
live  coals.  Then  there  was  the  fat  little  manicou  or 
'possum,  which  tasted  like  a  sweet  little  suckling  pig.  I 
wondered  at  the  skill  of  the  cook,  whose  magic  was 
performed  over  a  handful  of  coals  from  the  charred 
logwood,  in  an  iron  kettle  or  two.  Nearly  everything 
is  boiled  or  simmered;  there  is  little  frying  and  hardly 
any  baking. 

With  the  manicou  we  drank  the  coarse  native  choco- 
late sweetened  with  the  brown  syrupy  sugar*  of  the 
islands.  I  did  not  like  it  at  first,  there  was  a  by-taste 
that  was  new  to  me.  But  I  soon  grew  fond  of  it  and 
found  that  it  gave  me  a  wonderful  strength  for  rowing 
in  the  heavy  whale-boats,  cutting  blubber  and  the  ter- 
rific sweating  in  the  tropical  heat.     As  early  as  1695 

*  Muscovado. 


48  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

Pere  Labat  in  his  enthusiasm  truly  said,  "As  for  me,  I 
stand  by  the  advice  of  the  Spanish  doctors  who  agree 
that  there  is  more  nourishment  in  one  ounce  of  choco- 
late than  in  half  a  pound  of  beef." 

At  sunset  Jack  left  for  Grenada  in  one  of  the  whale* 
boats,  and  I  made  myself  snug  in  the  upper  floor  of  the 
shack.  Late  that  night  I  awoke  and  looking  out  over 
the  Caribbean,  blue  in  the  strong  clear  moonlight,  I 
saw  the  white  sail  of  the  returning  whaleboat  glide  into 
the  cove  and  was  lulled  to  sleep  again  by  the  plaintive 
chanty  of  the  whalemen  as  they  sang  to  dispel  the 
imaginary  terrors  that  lurk  in  the  shadows  of  the  cove. 

uBlo-o-ows  I"  came  with  the  sun  the  next  morning, 
followed  by  a  fierce  pounding  on  the  underside  of  the 
trap  door.  Bynoe,  the  harpooner,  had  scarcely  reached 
the  lookout  on  the  top  of  the  hill  when  he  saw  a  spout 
only  two  miles  to  windward  near  Les  Tantes.  The 
men  were  already  by  the  boats  as  I  ran  half  naked 
down  the  path  and  dumped  my  camera  in  the  stern  of 
the  Active  by  "de  bum  (bomb)  box,"  as  Jose  directed. 
With  a  string  of  grunts,  curses  and  "oh-hee's"  we  got 
the  heavy  boats  into  the  water  and  I  finished  dressing 
while  the  crews  put  in  "de  rock-stone"  for  ballast.  As 
we  left  the  cove  we  rowed  around  the  north  end  of 
the  island,  our  oars  almost  touching  the  steep  rocky 
shore  in  order  to  avoid  the  strong  current  that  swept 
between  Caille  and  Ronde. 

When  Jose  said,  "You  go  stroke  in  de  A active"  I 
little  knew  what  was  in  store  for  me.  The  twenty- 
foot  oak  oar,  carried  high  above  the  thwart  and  almost 
on  a  line  with  the  hip,  seemed  the  very  inbeing  of  un- 
wieldiness.    The  blade  was  scarcely  in  the  water  before 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  49 

the  oar  came  well  up  to  the  chest  and  the  best  part  of 
the  stroke  was  made  with  the  body  stretched  out  in  a 
straight  line — we  nearly  left  our  thwarts  at  every 
stroke — the  finish  being  made  with  the  hands  close  up 
under  our  chins.  In  the  recovery  we  pulled  our  bodies 
up  against  the  weight  of  the  oar,  feathering  at  the 
same  time — a  needless  torture,  for  the  long  narrow 
blade  was  almost  as  thick  as  it  was  wide.  Why  the 
rowlock  should  be  placed  so  high  and  so  near  the 
thwart  I  do  not  know;  the  Yankee  whaler  places  the 
rowlock  about  a  foot  farther  aft. 

While  the  humpbacker  has  not  departed  widely  from 
the  ways  of  his  teacher  a  brief  description  of  his  out- 
fit may  not  be  amiss.  His  boat  is  the  same  large 
double-ended  sea-canoe  of  the  Yankee  but  it  has  lost 
the  graceful  ends  and  the  easy  lines  of  the  New  Bed- 
ford craft.  Almost  uncouth  in  its  roughness,  the  well 
painted  topsides,  usually  a  light  grey  with  the  black  of 
the  tarred  bottom  and  boot-top  showing,  give  it  a 
ship-shape  appearance;  while  the  orderly  confusion  of 
the  worn  gear  and  the  tarry  smell  coming  up  from 
under  the  floors  lend  an  air  of  adventure  in  harmony 
with  the  men  who  make  up  its  crew. 

The  crew  of  six  take  their  positions  beginning  with 
the  harpooner  in  the  bow  in  the  following  order :  bow- 
oar,  mid-oar,  tub-oar,  stroke  and  boatsteerer.  For 
the  purpose  of  making  fast  to  the  whale  the  harpooner 
uses  two  "irons"  thrown  by  hand.  The  "iron"  is  a 
sharp  wrought  iron  barb,  having  a  shank  about  two 
feet  long  to  which  the  shaft  is  fastened.  The  "first" 
iron  is  made  fast  to  the  end  of  the  whale  line,  the  first 
few  fathoms  of  which  are  coiled  on  the  small  foredeck 


50  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

or  "box."  This  is  the  heaving  coil  and  is  known  as 
the  "box  line."  The  line  then  passes  aft  through  the 
bow  chocks  to  the  loggerhead,  a  smooth  round  oak  bitt 
stepped  through  the  short  deck  in  the  stern,  around 
which  a  turn  or  two  are  thrown  to  give  a  braking  ac- 
tion as  the  whale  takes  the  line  in  its  first  rush. 

From  the  loggerhead,  the  line  goes  forward  to  the 
tub  amidships  in  which  150  fathoms  are  coiled  down. 
The  "second"  iron  is  fastened  to  a  short  warp,  the 
end  of  which  is  passed  around  the  main  line  in  a  bow- 
line so  that  it  will  run  freely.  In  case  of  accident  to 
the  first,  the  second  iron  may  hold  and  the  bowline 
will  then  toggle  on  the  first.  Immediately  after  the 
whale  is  struck,  the  line  is  checked  in  such  a  manner 
that  the  heavy  boat  can  gather  headway,  usually  against 
the  short,  steep  seas  of  the  "trades,"  without  produc- 
ing too  great  a  strain  on  the  gear.  The  humpbacker 
loses  many  whales  through  the  parting  of  his  line,  for 
his  boat  is  not  only  heavily  constructed  but  carries  a 
considerable  weight  of  stone  ballast — "rock-stone" — 
to  steady  it  when  sailing.  The  Yankee,  in  a  boat 
scarcely  heavier  than  his  crew,  holds  the  line  immedi- 
ately after  the  strike  and  makes  a  quick  killing.  He 
only  gives  out  line  when  a  whale  sounds  or  shows 
fight.  He  makes  his  kill  by  cutting  into  the  vitals  of 
the  whale  with  a  long  pole  lance,  reserving  the  less 
sportsmanlike  but  more  expeditious  bomb  gun  for  a 
last  resort,  while  the  humpbacker  invariably  uses  the 
latter. 

A  jib  and  sprit-sail  are  carried,  the  latter  having  a 
gaff  and  boom,  becketed  for  quick  hoisting  and  lower- 
ing.   Instead  of  using  the  convenient  "tabernacle"  by 


<  .  «  •  •  c 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  51 

which  the  Yankee  can  drop  his  rig  by  the  loosening  of 
a  pin,  the  humpbacker  awkwardly  steps  his  mast 
through  a  thwart  into  a  block  on  the  keel. 

The  strike  may  be  made  while  rowing  or  under  full 
sail,  according  to  the  position  of  the  boat  when  a  whale 
is  "raised."  Because  of  the  position  of  its  eyes,  the 
whale  cannot  see  directly  fore  and  aft,  his  range  of 
vision  being,  limited  like  that  of  a  person  standing  in 
the  cabin  of  a  steamer  and  looking  out  through  the 
port.  The  whaler  takes  advantage  of  this,  making  his 
approach  along  the  path  in  which  the  whale  is  travel- 
ling. The  early  whalemen  called  the  bow  of  the  boat 
the  "head,"  whence  the  expression,  "taking  them  head- 
and-head,"  when  the  boat  is  sailing  down  on  a  school 
of  whales. 

"Ease-de-oar  I"  yelled  Jose,  for  we  were  now  out  of 
the  current,  bobbing  in  the  open  sea  to  windward  of 
Caille  where  the  "trade"  was  blowing  half  a  gale. 
We  shipped  our  oars,  banking  them  over  the  gunwale 
with  the  blades  aft.  The  other  boat  had  pulled  up 
and  it  was  a  scramble  to  see  who  would  get  the  wind- 
ward berth. 

"You  stan'  af  an'  clar  de  boom,"  he  said  to  me,  as 
the  men  ran  the  heavy  mast  up  with  a  rush  while  the 
harpooner  aimed  the  foot  as  it  dropped  through, the 
hole  in  the  thwart  and  into  its  step — a  shifty  trick 
with  the  dripping  nose  of  the  boat  pointed  skyward  one 
instant  and  the  next  buried  deep  in  the  blue  of  the  At- 
lantic. 

"Becket  de  gyaf — run  ou'  de  boom — look  shyarp !" 
With  a  mighty  sweep  of  his  steering  oar,  Jose  pried 
our  stern  around  and  we  got  the  windward  berth  on  the 


52  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

starboard  tack.  One  set  of  commands  had  sufficed  for 
both  boats;  we  were  close  together,  and  they  seemed 
to  follow  up  the  scent  like  a  couple  of  joyous  Orchas. 
Now  I  began  to  understand  the  philosophy  of  ude 
rock-stone1 '  for  we  slid  along  over  the  steep  breaking 
seas  scarcely  taking  a  drop  of  spray  into  the  boat.  As 
I  sat  on  the  weather  rail,  I  had  an  opportunity  to  study 
the  men  in  their  element.  The  excitement  of  the  start 
had  been  edged  off  by  the  work  at  the  oars.  We 
might  have  been  on  a  pleasure  sail  instead  of  a  whale 
hunt.  In  fact,  there  was  no  whale  to  be  seen  for  "de 
balen*  soun',"  as  Jose  said  in  explanation  of  the  ab- 
sence of  the  little  cloud  of  steam  for  which  we  were 
looking.  Daniel-Joe,  our  harpooner,  had  already  bent 
on  his  "first"  iron  and  was  lazily  throwing  the  end  of 
the  short  warp  of  his  "second"  to  the  main  line  while 
keeping  an  indefinite  lookout  over  the  starboard  bow. 
He  might  have  been  coiling  a  clothesline  in  the  back 
yard  and  thinking  of  the  next  Policeman's  Ball. 

The  bow-oar,  swaying  on  the  loose  stay  to  weather, 
took  up  the  range  of  vision  while  we  of  the  weather 
rail  completed  the  broadside.  Jose,  who  had  taken  in 
his  long  steering  oar  and  dropped  the  rudder  in  its 
pintles,  was  "feeling"  the  boat  through  the  long  tiller 
in  that  absent  way  of  the  man  born  to  the  sea.  With 
a  sort  of  dual  vision  he  watched  the  sails  and  the  sea 
to  windward  at  the  same  time.  "Wet  de  leach!"  and 
"Cippie,"  the  tub-oar,  let  himself  down  carefully  to 
the  lee  rail  where  he  scooped  up  water  in  a  large  cala- 
bash, swinging  his  arm  aft  in  a  quick  motion,  and  then 

[    *From  the  French  balein,  meaning  whale. 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  53 

threw  it  up  into  the  leach  to  shrink  the  sail  where  it 
was  flapping. 

Time  after  time  I  was  on  the  point  of  giving  the 
yell  only  to  find  that  my  eye  had  been  fooled  by  a 
distant  white  cap.  But  finally  it  did  come,  that  little 
perpendicular  jet  dissipated  into  a  cloud  of  steam  as 
the  wind  caught  it,  distinct  from  the  white  caps  as  the 
sound  of  a  rattle-snake  from  the  rustle  of  dry  leaves. 
It  was  a  young  bull,  loafing  down  the  lee  tide  not  far 
from  where  Bynoe  had  first  sighted  him. 

Again  he  sounded  but  only  for  a  short  time  and 
again  we  saw  his  spout  half  a  mile  under  our  lee.  We 
had  oversailed  him.  As  we  swung  off  the  wind  he 
sounded.  In  a  time  too  short  to  have  covered  the 
distance,  I  thought,  Jose  gave  the  word  to  the  crew 
who  unshipped  the  rig,  moving  about  soft-footed  like 
a  lot  of  big  black  cats  without  making  the  slightest 
knock  against  the  planking  of  the  boat. 

We  got  our  oars  out  and  waited.  Captain  Caesar 
held  the  other  boat  hove-to  a  little  to  windward  of  us. 
Then  I  remembered  the  lee  tide  and  knew  that  we  must 
be  somewhere  over  the  bull.  Suddenly  Jose  whispered, 
uDe  wale  sing!"  I  thought  he  was  fooling  at  first, 
the  low  humming  coming  perhaps  from  one  of  the 
men,  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  sound.  I  placed 
my  ear  against  the  planking  from  which  it  came  in  a 
distinct  note  like  the  low  tone  of  a  'cello.  While  I 
was  on  my  hands  and  knees  listening  to  him  the  sound 
suddenly  ceased.  "Look!"  yelled  Jose,  as  the  bull 
came  up  tail  first,  breaking  water  less  than  a  hundred 
yards  from  us,  his  immense  flukes  fully  twenty  feet 
out  of  the  water. 


54  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

Time  seemed  to  stop  while  my  excited  brain  took  in 
the  cupid's  bow  curve  of  the  flukes  dotted  with  large 
white  barnacles  like  snowballs  plastered  on  a  black 
wall,  while  in  reality  it  was  all  over  in  a  flash — a  sight 
too  unexpected  for  the  camera.  Righting  himself,  he 
turned  to  windward,  passing  close  to  the  other  boat. 
It  was  a  long  chance  but  Bynoe  took  it,  sending  his 
harpoon  high  into  the  air,  followed  by  the  snaky  line. 

A  perfect  eye  was  behind  the  strong  arm  that  had 
thrown  it  and  the  iron  fell  from  its  height  to  sink  deep 
into  the  flesh  aft  of  the  fin.  As  the  line  became  taut, 
the  boat  with  its  rig  still  standing  gathered  headway, 
following  the  whale  in  a  smother  of  foam,  the  sails 
cracking  in  the  wind  like  revolver  shots  while  a  thin 
line  of  smoke  came  from  the  loggerhead.  Caesar 
must  have  been  snubbing  his  line  too  much,  however, 
for  in  another  moment  it  parted,  leaving  a  boatload 
of  cursing,  jabbering  negroes  a  hundred  yards  or  more 
from  their  starting  point.  The  bull  left  for  more 
friendly  waters.  The  tension  of  the  excitement  hav- 
ing snapped  with  the  line,  a  volley  of  excuses  came 
down  the  wind  to  us  which  finally  subsided  into  a 
philosophical,  "It  wuz  de  will  ob  de  Lard." 

Whaling  was  over  for  that  day  and  we  sailed  back 
to  the  cove  to  climb  the  rocks  to  the  ajoupa  where  we 
filled  our  complaining  stomachs  with  manicou  and 
chocolate.  While  we  ate  the  sun  dropped  behind  the 
ragged  fringe  of  clouds  on  the  horizon  and  the  day 
suddenly  ended  changing  into  the  brilliant  starlit  night 
of  the  tropics.  Even  if  we  had  lost  our  whale,  the  spell 
was  at  last  broken  for  we  had  made  a  strike.  Bynoe's 
pipe  sizzled  and  bubbled  with  my  good  tobacco  as  he 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  55 

told  of  the  dangers  of  Kick  'em  Jinny  or  Diamond 
Rock  on  the  other  side  of  Ronde. 

The  men  drew  close  to  the  log  where  we  were  sit- 
ting as  I  told  of  another  Diamond  Rock  off  Martinique 
of  which  you  shall  hear  in  due  time.  Bynoe  in  turn 
told  of  how  he  had  helped  in  the  rescue  of  an  unfortu- 
nate from  a  third  Diamond  Rock  off  the  coast  of  Cayan 
(French  Guiana)  where  the  criminal  punishment  used 
to  be  that  of  putting  a  man  on  the  rock  at  low  tide  and 
leaving  him  a  prey  to  the  sharks  when  the  sea  should 
rise.  But  there  was  something  else  on  Bynoe's  mind. 
The  same  thing  seemed  to  occur  to  Caesar,  who  ad- 
dressed him  in  patois.    Then  the  harpooner  asked  me  : 

"An'  you  not  in  thees  ilan'  before?" 

I  lighted  my  candle  lamp  and  spread  my  charts  out 
on  the  ground  before  the  whalers.  As  I  showed  them 
their  own  Grenadines  their  wonder  knew  no  bounds. 
Charts  were  unknown  to  them.  Now  they  understood 
the  magic  by  which  I  knew  what  land  I  might  be  ap- 
proaching— even  if  I  had  never  been  there  before. 

Most  of  the  names  of  the  islands  are  French  or 
Carib;  even  the  few  English  names  were  unknown  to 
the  men,  who  used  the  names  given  to  the  islands  be- 
fore they  were  finally  taken  over  by  the  British.  One 
which  interested  me  was  Bird  Island,  which  they  called 
Mouchicarri,  a  corruption  of  Mouchoir  Carre  or 
Square  Handkerchief.  This  must  have  been  a  favour- 
ite expression  in  the  old  days  for  a  whitened  shoal  or  a 
low  lying  island  where  the  surf  beats  high  and  white, 
for  there  is  a  Mouchoir  Carre  off  Guadeloupe,  another 
in  the  Bahamas  and  we  have  our  own  Handkerchief 
Shoals.     From  the  lack  of  English  names  it  is  not  at 


56  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

all  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  it  was  a  Frenchman 
who  first  explored  the  Grenadines.  Columbus,  on  his 
hunt  for  the  gold  of  Veragua,  saw  the  larger  islands 
of  Grenada  and  Saint  Vincent  from  a  distance  and 
named  them  without  having  set  foot  on  them.  Mar- 
tinique was  the  first  well  established  colony  in  the  Les- 
ser Antilles  and  from  that  island  a  boatload  of  ad- 
venturers may  have  sailed  down  the  islands,  naming 
one  of  the  Grenadines  Petit  Martinique,  from  their 
own  island,  because  of  its  striking  similarity  of  con- 
tour, rising  into  a  small  counterpart  of  Pelee.  Also, 
it  was  more  feasible  to  sail  down  from  Martinique 
than  to  buck  the  wind  and  current  in  the  long  channel 
from  Trinidad. 

As  the  fire  in  the  ajoupa  died  down,  the  men  drew 
closer  and  closer  to  the  friendly  light  of  my  candle, 
away  from  the  spooky  shadows,  and  when  I  bade  them 
good  night  they  were  behind  the  tightly  closed  door 
and  shutters  of  their  cabin  by  the  time  I  had  reached 
my  roost  in  the  top  of  the  shack. 

For  several  days  after  our  first  strike  the  cry  of 
"blows"  would  bring  us  "all  standing"  and  we  would 
put  to  sea  only  to  find  that  the  whale  had  made  off  to 
windward  or  had  loafed  into  those  tantalising  currents 
to  leeward  where  we  could  see  it  but  dared  not  follow. 
Finally  our  chance  came  again — and  almost  slipped 
away  under  our  very  noses. 

We  had  been  following  a  bull  and  a  cow  and  calf 
since  sunrise.  At  last  they  sounded  an  hour  before 
sunset.  We  had  eaten  no  food  since  the  night  before 
and  all  day  long  the  brown-black  almost  hairless  calves 
of  the  men  had  been  reminding  me  in  an  agonising  way 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  57 

of  the  breast  of  roasted  duck.  The  constant  tacking 
back  and  forth,  the  work  of  stepping  and  unshipping 
the  rig,  the  two  or  three  rain  squalls  which  washed  the 
salt  spray  out  of  our  clothes  and  made  us  cold,  had 
tired  us  and  dulled  our  senses.  Suddenly  the  keen 
Bynoe,  with  the  eyes  of  a  pelican,  gave  the  yell.  There 
they  were,  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  from  us.  The  bull 
had  gone  his  way.  I  was  in  Caesar's  boat  this  time  and 
as  Bynoe  was  considered  the  better  of  the  two  har- 
pooners  we  made  for  the  calf  and  were  soon  fast. 

If  ever  a  prayer  were  answered  through  fervency 
our  line  would  have  parted  and  spared  this  baby — al- 
though it  seems  a  travesty  to  call  a  creature  twenty- 
eight  feet  long  a  baby.  But  it  was  a  baby  compared 
to  its  mother,  who  was  sixty-eight  feet  long.  As  the 
calf  was  welling  up  its  life  blood,  giving  the  sea  a  tinge 
that  matched  the  colour  of  the  dying  sun,  the  devoted 
mother  circled  around  us,  so  close  that  we  could  have 
put  our  second  iron  into  her. 

It  is  always  this  way  with  a  cow  and  her  calf.  The 
first  or  more  skillful  boat's  crew  secures  the  calf  while 
the  mother's  devotion  makes  the  rest  easy  for  the 
other  boat.  There  was  no  slip  this  time  and  the  pro- 
gramme was  carried  out  without  a  hitch.  Jose  bore 
down  in  the  Active  and  Daniel- Joe  sent  his  iron  home 
with  a  yell.  We  stopped  our  work  of  killing  for  the  mo- 
ment to  watch  them  as  they  melted  away  in  the  fading 
light,  a  white  speck  that  buried  itself  in  the  darkness  of 
the  horizon.  It  was  an  all-night  row  for  us,  now  in 
the  lee  tide,  now  in  the  weather  tide,  towing  this 
baby — a  task  that  seemed  almost  as  hopeless  as  towing 


58  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

a  continent.  But  we  made  progress  and  by  morning 
were  back  in  the  cove. 

Having  eaten  three  times  and  cut  up  the  calf,  we 
sailed  for  Sauteurs  late  in  the  afternoon  for  news  of 
Jose  and  the  cow.  Jose's  flight  from  Mouchicarri, 
where  we  had  struck  the  whales,  had  been  down  the 
windward  coast  of  Grenada.  We  were  met  on  the 
jetty  by  Jack,  who  told  us  that  the  cow  had  been  killed 
at  the  other  end  of  Grenada  and  would  not  start  till 
the  next  noon.  He  had  made  arrangements  for  the 
little  coasting  steamer,  Taw,  to  tow  the  carcass  up 
from  St.  George's. 

And  so  the  cow  would  make  the  circuit  of  the  island, 
the  first  part  very  much  alive,  towing  a  crew  of  ne- 
groes half  dead  from  fright  and  the  last  of  the  way 
being  towed  very  much  dead.  While  we  had  been 
rowing  our  hearts  out,  Jose  and  his  crew  had  been 
streaking  it  behind  the  whale,  not  daring  to  pull  up  in 
the  darkness  for  the  "kill." 

At  dawn  they  despatched  the  weakened  animal  more 
than  thirty  miles  from  their  starting  point.  We  learned 
later  that,  although  the  wind  and  tide  had  been  in  their 
favour  and  as  they  neared  shore  other  boats  had  put 
out  to  reach  them,  they  did  not  reach  St.  George's  till 
eleven  the  following  night.  They  had  made  half  a 
mile  an  hour. 

As  we  turned  in  on  the  floor  of  Jack's  cocoa  shop,  I 
began  to  have  visions  of  something  "high"  in  the  line 
of  whale  on  the  morrow.  I  knew  the  Taw.  She  could 
not  possibly  tow  the  whale  any  faster  than  three  miles 
an  hour  and  would  not  leave  St.  George's  till  one 
o'clock  the  next  day.     The  distance  was  twenty-one 


r- 


M 


UNSHIPPING  THE  RIG. 


c         t  t  <  < 

,        <   £  t  C  < 

'  c  I  *         ' 

<       <  ,  (  t       * 

t    ,  *  J  I  c    <     •     « 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  59 

miles,  so  that  by  the  time  she  could  be  cut-in  the  whale 
would  have  been  dead  three  nights  and  two  days.  I 
no  longer  regretted  the  wild  night  ride  I  had  missed. 

The  next  afternoon  we  were  again  in  the  whaleboat, 
Jack  with  us.  Our  plan  was  to  wait  near  London 
Bridge,  a  natural  arch  of  rocks  half  way  between  Sau- 
teurs  and  Caille  and  a  little  to  windward.  We  did 
this  to  entice  the  captain  of  the  Taw  as  far  to  wind- 
ward as  possible  for  we  were  not  at  all  certain  that 
he  would  tow  the  whale  all  the  way  to  lle-de-Caille. 
If  he  brought  the  whale  as  far  as  London  Bridge,  the 
two  boats  might  be  able  to  tow  the  carcass  during  the 
night  through  the  remaining  three  miles  to  the  island 
so  that  we  could  begin  to  cut-in  in  the  morning. 

So  we  sailed  back  and  forth  till  at  last,  as  the  sun 
was  sinking,  we  made  out  the  tiny  drift  of  steamer 
smoke  eight  miles  away.  They  were  not  even  making 
the  three  miles  an  hour  and  Bynoe  said  that  the  tongue 
must  have  swollen  and  burst  the  lines,  allowing  the 
mouth  to  open.  We  began  to  wonder  why  they  did  not 
cut  off  the  ventral  flukes  and  tow  the  whale  tail  first. 
But  the  reason  came  out  later. 

The  moon  would  be  late,  and  we  continued  sailing 
in  the  darkness  without  a  light,  lest  the  captain  should 
pick  us  up  too  soon  and  cast  off  the  whale  in  mid- 
channel  where  ten  whaleboats  could  not  drag  her 
against  the  current  which  was  now  lee.  We  lost  sight 
of  the  steamer  for  an  hour  or  so  but  finally  decided 
that  what  we  had  taken  for  a  low  evening  star  was  her 
masthead  light.  In  another  hour  we  could  make  out 
the  red  and  green  of  her  running  lights.  She  was  in 
the  clutches  of  the  tide  directly  to  leeward.     She  was 


60  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

also  two  miles  off  her  course  and  we  began  to  wonder 
why  the  captain  did  not  give  up  in  disgust  and  cast  the 
whale  adrift.    We  sailed  down  to  find  out. 

First  the  hull  of  the  steamer  began  to  take  shape  in 
the  velvety  darkness;  then  as  we  swung  up  into  the 
wind  we  made  out  the  whaleboat  some  distance  astern. 
As  the  bow  of  the  steamer  rose  on  a  long  sea,  her  after 
deck  lights  threw  their  rays  on  a  low  black  object  upon 
which  the  waves  were  shoaling  as  on  a  reef.  At  the 
same  instant  a  stray  whiff  from  the  trade  wind  brought 
us  the  message.  We  were  doubly  informed  of  the 
presence  of  the  cow. 

But  it  was  not  the  cow  that  drew  our  attention.  On 
the  aft  deck,  leaning  far  out,  stood  the  captain.  His 
features  were  distinct  in  the  beams  of  the  range  light. 
Suddenly  he  started  as  though  he  had  seen  something. 
Then  he  bellowed,  "Where  in  hell  did  you  come 
from?'' 

"We've  been  waiting  to  windward  for  you;  what's 
the  trouble?" 

"Trouble?"  he  shrieked,  "trouble? — your  damned 
old  whale  is  fast  and  I  can't  get  her  off." 

We  guessed  the  rest.  As  Bynoe  had  predicted,  the 
tongue  had  swollen  and  burst  the  lashing  that  had  held 
the  mouth  closed.  Next  the  towline  had  parted.  This 
had  happened  shortly  after  the  steamer  left  St. 
George's  and  the  men  who  were  towing  behind  in  their 
boat  had  begged  the  captain  to  pass  out  his  steel 
cable.  He  didn't  know  it  but  it  was  here  that  he  erred. 
The  whalemen  ran  the  cable  through  the  jaw,  bending 
the  end  into  a  couple  of  hitches.    When  they  started 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  61 

up  again,  the  hitches  slipped  back  and  jammed,  making 
it  impossible  to  untie  the  cable. 

Progress  had  been  slow  enough  under  the  lee  of 
Grenada  but  when  the  steamer  got  clear  of  the  land 
she  felt  the  clutches  of  the  current  and  progress  to 
the  northward  was  impossible.  He  announced  to  the 
pleading  whalemen  that  he  was  sick  of  the  job  and  was 
going  to  cut  loose.  But  he  couldn't.  There  was  not 
a  tool  aboard  except  the  engine  room  wrenches.  Not 
even  a  file  or  a  cold-chisel. 

Jack  asked  him,  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Me? — it's  your  whale." 

"Yes,  but  youVe  got  it.  I  don't  want  it,  it's  too  old 
now." 

And  old  it  was.  The  smell  even  seemed  to  go  to 
windward.  But  there  was  only  one  course  left  and 
twelve  o'clock  found  us  at  Sauteurs,  the  whale  still 
in  possession  of  the  Taw, 

The  scene  of  our  midnight  supper  in  the  cocoa  shop 
that  night  will  long  remain  in  my  memory  as  one  of 
those  pictures  so  strange  and  far  off  that  one  often 
wonders  whether  it  was  a  real  experience  or  a  fantasy 
suggested  by  some  illustration  or  story  long  since  for- 
gotten. We  cooked  in  Jack's  little  sanctum,  railed  off 
at  one  end  of  the  shop,  where  the  negress  brings  his 
tea  in  the  morning  and  afternoon.  At  the  other  end 
was  the  small  counter  with  the  ledger  and  scales  that 
brought  out  the  very  idea  of  barter.  On  the  floor 
space  between  were  bags  of  cocoa  and  the  tubs  in 
which  the  beans  are  "tramped"  with  red  clay  for  the 
market.     Two  coils  of  new  whale  line  and  a  bundle 


62  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

of  spare  irons  lay  near  the  door  waiting  for  our  re- 
turn to  the  island. 

Strewn  about  between  the  bags  and  tubs  were  the 
humpbackers  like  blackened  driftwood,  their  clothes 
giving  the  appearance  of  kelp.  Jose  and  his  crew  were 
already  fast  sleep,  while  the  others  sat  up  against  the 
bags,  watching  us  like  hungry  dogs  for  the  food  we 
should  give  them.  As  we  ate  the  tinned  beef  of  the 
jungle  that  shook  hands  across  the  sea  with  the  tea 
of  the  sporting  Baronet,  we  talked  of  things  of  the 
sea,  and  Bynoe,  unlettered  but  sage,  shrewd  and  sharp, 
put  in  a  word  now  and  then  till  his  own  crew,  sent 
to  sleep  by  the  monotone  of  our  voices,  slid  one  by  one 
to  the  floor. 

At  last  the  chorus  of  snores  reminded  us  that  we 
too  ought  to  turn  in  and  we  drifted  off  to  smooth  cur- 
rentless  seas  filled  with  whales. 

In  the  morning  Bynoe  announced : 

"Balen  not  too  bad,  we  cut  up  she."  But  she  was 
bad  enough  as  the  morning  breeze  bore  testimony 
through  the  open  door  of  the  shop. 

Jack  said,  "We'll  be  Yankees  this  morning,"  so  we 
ate  our  breakfast  early,  procured  a  cold-chisel  and  cut 
the  steamer  loose.  As  she  left  the  roadstead  she  gave 
a  joyous  toot,  while  the  captain  sent  us  a  parting  volley 
of  his  choicest  morning  oaths.  We  anchored  the  car- 
cass in  the  smoother  waters  behind  the  reef  where  we 
began  the  work  of  cutting-in. 

Cutting-in  a  freshly  killed  whale  with  long-handled 
spades  from  the  staging  of  a  whaler  at  sea  is  a  greasy 
job  at  best,  but  we,  who  had  no  masthead  tackle  for 
stripping  the  blubber  like  the  spiral  peel  of  an  orange, 


A 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  63 

were  not  simply  greasy — we  were  filthy.  As  we 
swarmed  over  the  slippery  sides  of  the  whale,  remov- 
ing chunks  of  blubber  like  cakes  of  ice,  I  thought  of 
one  of  my  New  Bedford  friends  who  used  to  boast  of 
how  he  revelled  in  crawling  into  the  "innards"  of  a 
whale  for  the  choice  oil  of  the  immense  liver  and  the 
possible  chance  of  finding  a  piece  of  ambergris.  This 
job  would  have  put  a  stop  to  his  boast  forever.  But 
it  did  not  last  long  for  we  could  only  remove  the  blub- 
ber from  the  top  side.  The  sharks  had  taken  care  of 
the  underbody.  We  had  the  assistance  of  other  boats 
which  carried  the  blubber  to  the  tryworks  at  ile-de- 
Caille  as  fast  as  we  could  load  them. 

This  was  only  the  first  stage,  however,  for  it  is 
really  the  flesh  that  the  native  is  after.  He  cares  little 
for  the  oil  which  he  burns  in  the  trying  and  which  com- 
mands but  a  small  price.  Strange  to  say,  in  this  hot 
country  the  negro  is  extremely  fond  of  whale-meat, 
which  brings  a  price  of  three  cents  a  pound  in  the 
markets.     Next  to  rum  they  love  whale-meat. 

I  lasted  through  the  blubber  stage  and  retired  grace- 
fully, making  the  following  note  in  my  log:  "The 
whaleman  has  only  four  senses,  sight,  taste,  hearing 
and  touch." 

But  the  sense  of  smell  of  the  shore  natives  was  not 
underdeveloped.  When  I  landed  on  the  jetty  I  found 
the  whole  town  holding  its  nose.  All  afternoon  Jack 
and  I  watched  the  men  from  the  hill  in  back  of  the 
town  as  they  dug  at  that  putrid  mountain  of  flesh  which 
was  being  carried  away  in  boatloads  till  there  was  little 
left  above  water  but  the  immense  intestines  and  blad- 
ders that  looked  like  a  fleet  of  balloons  come  to  grief. 


64  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

I  am  firmly  convinced  that  the  next  morning  the 
odour  from  that  carcass  opened  the  door,  walked  in  and 
shook  me  by  the  shoulders.  No  one  else  had  done  it 
and  I  sat  up  with  a  start.  Shortly  after,  a  courier  from 
the  district  board  brought  the  following  message:  (I 
use  the  word  "courier"  for  it  is  the  only  time  I  ever 
saw  a  native  run.) 

St.  Patrick's  District  Board, 
Secretary's  Office,  24th,  February,  191 1. 
John  S.  Wildman,  Esq., 

Sir: — In  the  interest  of  sanitation,  I  am  instructed 
to  request  that  the  whale's  carcass  be  removed  from 
the  harbour  within  three  hours  after  the  service  of  this 
notice. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  sir, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

R.  L.  B.  A.,  Warden. 

We  were  not  unwilling  and  had  what  was  left  of 
the  cow  towed  out  into  the  current  which  would  carry 
it  far  into  the  Caribbean  where  for  days  the  gulls 
could  gorge  themselves  and  scream  over  it  in  a  white 
cloud.  At  least  that  was  our  intention,  but  by  a  pretty 
piece  of  miscalculation  on  the  part  of  Bynoe  the  car- 
cass fetched  up  under  Point  Tangalanga  where  the 
last  pieces  of  flesh  were  removed  on  the  eighth  day 
after  the  whale's  death. 

Our  work  done  at  Sauteurs,  we  sailed  back  to  Caille, 
where  we  scrubbed  out  the  boats  with  white  coral  sand 
to  remove  the  grease,  dried  out  the  lines  and  coiled 
them  down  in  the  tubs  for  the  next  whale. 

My  real  ride  behind  a  humpback  came  at  last  in  that 
unexpected  way  that  ushers  in  the  unusual.    We  were 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  65 

loafing  one  day  near  Mouchicarri,  lying-to  for  the 
moment  in  a  heavy  rain  squall,  when  it  suddenly 
cleared,  disclosing  three  whales  under  our  lee.  They 
were  a  bull,  a  cow  and  a  yawlin  (yearling),  with  Jose 
close  on  their  track.  Bynoe  hastily  backed  the  jib  so 
that  we  could  "haal  aff"  and  we  made  a  short  tack. 

Just  as  we  were  ready  to  come  about  again  in  order 
to  get  a  close  weather  berth  of  the  bull,  the  upper  rud- 
der pintle  broke  and  our  chance  slipped  by.  Why 
Caesar  did  not  keep  on,  using  the  steering  oar,  I  do 
not  know.  Perhaps  it  was  that  yellow  streak  that  is  so 
dangerous  when  one  is  depending  on  the  native  in  a 
tight  place,  for  we  should  have  had  that  bull.  He 
was  immense. 

The  rudder  was  quickly  tied  up  to  the  stern  post,  but 
it  was  only  after  two  hours  of  tedious  sailing  and  row- 
ing that  we  were  again  upon  them.  Once  more  we  had 
the  weather  berth  and  bore  down  on  them  under  full 
sail,  Bynoe  standing  high  up  on  the  "box,"  holding  to 
the  forestay.  Except  for  the  occasional  hiss  of  a  sea 
breaking  under  us,  there  was  not  a  sound  and  we 
swooped  down  on  them  with  the  soft  flight  of  an  owl. 

As  I  stood  up  close  to  Caesar,  I  could  see  the  whole 
of  the  action.  The  three  whales  were  swimming 
abreast,  blowing  now  and  then  as  they  rose  from  a 
shallow  dive.  The  tense  crew,  all  looking  forward 
like  ebony  carvings  covered  with  the  nondescript  rags 
of  a  warehouse,  seemed  frozen  to  their  thwarts.  Only 
one  of  us  moved  and  he  was  Caesar,  and  I  noticed  that 
he  swung  the  oar  a  little  to  port  in  order  to  avoid  the 
bull  and  take  the  yawlin.  I  had  guessed  right  about 
the  yellow  streak. 


66  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

But  even  the  yawlin  was  no  plaything  and  as  he  rose 
right  under  the  bow  the  sea  slid  off  his  mountainous 
back  as  from  a  ledge  of  black  rock,  a  light  green  in 
contrast  to  the  deep  blue  into  which  it  poured.  The 
cavernous  rush  of  air  and  water  from  his  snout  sprayed 
Bynoe  in  the  face  as  he  drove  the  iron  down  into  him. 
He  passed  under  us,  our  bow  dropping  into  the  swirl 
left  by  his  tail  and  I  could  feel  the  bump  of  his  back 
through  Caesar's  oar. 

I  wondered  for  the  moment  if  the  boat  would  trip. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  turning,  for  the  next  instant  the 
flying  spray  drove  the  lashes  back  into  my  eyes  and  I 
knew  we  were  fast.  Blinded  for  the  moment  I  could 
feel  the  boat  going  over  and  through  the  seas,  skitter- 
ing after  the  whale  like  a  spoon  being  reeled  in  from  a 
cast.  When  I  finally  succeeded  in  wiping  the  lashes  out 
of  my  eyes  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  ahead  but 
two  walls  of  spray  which  rose  from  the  very  bows  of 
the  boat,  with  Bynoe  still  clinging  to  the  stay  with  his 
head  and  shoulders  clear  of  the  flying  water.  There 
was  no  need  to  wet  the  line;  the  tub  oar  was  bailing 
instead. 

How  the  rig  came  down  I  do  not  know  and  I  marvel 
at  the  skill  or  the  luck  of  the  men  who  unshipped  the 
heavy  mast  in  that  confusion  of  motions,  for  my  whole 
attention  was  called  by  the  yelling  Caesar  to  the  logger- 
head, which  somehow  had  one  too  many  turns  around 
it.  Caesar  was  busy  with  the  steering  oar,  and  the 
men  had  settled  down  a  little  forward  of  midships 
to  keep  the  boat  from  yawing.  So  I  committed  the 
foolhardy  trick  of  jumping  over  the  line  as  it  whizzed 
past  me  in  a  yellow  streak  and,  bracing  myself  on  the 


ONCE  MORE  WE  HAD  THE  WEATHER  BERTH  AND  BORE  DOWN 
ON  THEM  UNDER  FULL  SAIL,  BYNOE  STANDING  HIGH  UP  ON 
THE    "BOX,"    HOLDING    TO    THE    FORESTAY." 


GRENADINE  WHALEBOAT  SHOWING  BOW  AND  FALSE-CHOCK. 
THE  HARPOON  IS  POISED  IN  THE  LEFT  HAND  AND  HEAVED  WITH 
THE  RIGHT   ARM. 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  67 

port  side,  I  passed  my  hand  aft  along  the  rope  with 
a  quick  motion  and  threw  off  a  turn,  also  a  considerable 
area  of  skin,  of  which  the  salt  water  gave  sharp  notice 
later. 

The  line  was  eased  and  held  through  this  first  rush. 
As  the  whale  settled  down  to  steady  flight  we  threw 
back  that  turn  and  then  another,  till  the  tub  emptied 
slower  and  slower  and  the  line  finally  came  to  a  stop. 
We  were  holding.  But  we  were  still  going;  it  only 
meant  that  the  yawlin,  having  gone  through  his  first 
spurt,  had  struck  his  gait;  it  was  like  a  continuous  ride 
in  the  surf.  By  this  time  the  boat  was  well  trimmed 
and  bailed  dry. 

"Haal  een,  now,"  came  from  Caesar,  and  I  was 
again  reminded  of  the  missing  skin.  By  the  inch  first, 
then  by  the  foot  it  came,  till  we  had  hauled  back  most 
of  our  thousand  feet  of  line.  The  walls  of  spray  had 
dropped  lower  and  lower,  till  we  could  see  the  whale 
ahead  of  us,  his  dorsal  Rn  cutting  through  the  tops  of 
the  waves.  We  were  now  close  behind  his  propelling 
flukes  that  came  out  of  the  water  at  times  like  the 
screw  of  a  freighter  in  ballast.  Caesar  told  me  to 
load  "de  bum  lance,"  and  I  passed  the  gun  forward 
to  Bynoe.  He  held  it  for  a  moment  in  pensive  inde- 
cision— and  then  placed  it  carefully  under  the  box. 

He  now  removed  the  small  wooden  pin  that  keeps 
the  line  from  bobbing  out  of  the  bow  chocks,  and 
with  the  blunt  end  of  a  paddle  he  carefully  pried  the 
line  out  of  the  chock  so  that  it  slid  back  along  the 
rail,  coming  to  rest  against  the  false  chock  ab.out  three 
feet  abaft  the  stem.  We  now  swerved  off  to  one  side 
and  were  racing  parallel  to  the  whale  opposite  his 


68  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

flukes.  The  bow  four  surged  on  the  line  while  I  took 
in  the  slack  at  the  loggerhead,  Caesar  wrestling  franti- 
cally with  his  steering  oar  that  was  cutting  through  the 
maelstrom  astern. 

We  were  now  fairly  opposite  the  yawlin,  which 
measured  nearly  two  of  our  boat's  length.  It  was  one 
of  those  ticklish  moments  so  dear  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
lust  for  adventure — even  the  negroes  were  excited 
beyond  the  feeling  of  fear.  But  at  the  sight  of  the 
bomb  gun,  as  Bynoe  took  it  out  from  under  the  box, 
a  feeling  of  revulsion  swept  over  me  and  if  it  were 
not  for  the  fatal  "rock-stone,"  or  the  sharks  that 
might  get  us,  I  would  have  wished  the  gun  overboard 
and  a  fighting  sperm  off  Hatteras  on  our  line. 

The  yawlin  continued  his  flight  in  dumb  fear. 
Fitting  his  left  leg  into  the  half-round  of  the  box,  the 
harpooner  raised  his  gun  and  took  aim.  Following 
the  report  came  the  metallic  explosion  of  the  bomb 
inside  the  whale.  Our  ride  came  to  an  end  almost  as 
suddenly  as  it  had  begun;  the  yawlin  was  rolling 
inert  at  our  side,  having  scarcely  made  a  move  after 
the  shot.  The  bomb  had  pierced  the  arterial  reservoir, 
causing  death  so  quickly  that  we  missed  the  blood  and 
gore  which  usually  come  from  the  blow-hole  in  a 
crimson  fountain  with  the  dying  gasps  of  the  whale. 
Bynoe  explained  that  one  could  always  tell  if  the  vital 
spot  had  been  reached : 

"If  he  go  bam!  he  no  good.  Wen  he  go  cling! 
de  balen  mus'  stop."  His  way  of  expressing  it  was 
perfect,  for  the  "cling"  was  not  unlike  the  ringing 
hammer  of  trapped  air  in  a  steam  pipe,  but  fainter. 

Luck  was  with  us  this  time,  for  we  were  well  to 


WHALING  AT  ILE-DE-CAILLE  69 

windward  of  Caille,  with  a  tide  that  was  lee  to  help 
us  home. 

But  it  was  my  last  whale  at  ile-de-Caille,  and  after 
we  had  cut  him  in  and  set  his  oily  entrails  adrift  I 
turned  once  more  to  the  Yakaboo.  I  had  had  enough 
of  humpbacking  and  one  night  I  packed  my  outfit  and 
smoked  for  the  last  time  with  the  men. 


CHAPTER  III 

KICK  *EM  JINNY 

I  FIRMLY  believe  that  it  was  my  lucky  bug  that 
did  the  trick,  although  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances I  would  not  carry  a  tarantula  for  a  mascot. 
It  was  on  my  last  night  at  lle-de-Caille,  and  as  I 
crawled  up  through  the  hatch  of  my  upper  story  abode, 
something  black  stood  out  in  the  candle  flicker  against 
the  wall.  Before  I  knew  what  it  was,  instinct  told 
me  that  it  was  something  to  look  out  for  and  then  I 
noticed  the  huge  hairy  legs  that  proclaimed  the  taran- 
tula. Of  course,  I  could  not  have  him  running  around 
as  he  pleased  so  I  took  the  under  half  of  a  sixteen 
gauge  cartridge  box  and  covered  him  before  he  had 
time  to  think  of  jumping.  The  box,  which  measured 
four  and  a  half  inches  square,  was  not  too  large  for  I 
nipped  his  toes  as  I  pressed  the  pasteboard  against 
the  wall.  Then  I  slid  a  sheet  of  paper  between  him 
and  the  wall.  It  was  no  trick  at  all  to  superimpose  the 
upper  half  of  the  pasteboard  box,  slip  out  the  paper 
and  push  the  cover  down.  He  was  mine.  And  a 
good  mascot  he  proved  to  be  although  I  gave  him  a 
rough  time  of  it  in  the  jumble  of  sea  off  Kick  'em 
Jinny. 

Kick  'em  Jinny  is  the  sea-mule  of  the  Grenadines. 
In   a  prosaic  way  the  cartographer  has  marked  it 

70 


KICK  'EM  JINNY  71 

"Diamond  Rock,"  and  then,  as  if  ashamed  of  himself, 
has  put  the  real  name  in  small  letters  underneath.  So 
"steep-to"  that  a  vessel  would  strike  her  bowsprit  on 
its  sides  before  her  keel  touched  bottom,  Kick  'em 
Jinny  rises  from  a  diameter  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to 
a  height  of  nearly  seven  hundred  feet.  Cactus-grown, 
with  no  natural  resources,  one  would  scarcely  expect 
to  find  on  it  any  animal  life  other  than  a  few  sea  fowl. 
Yet,  besides  myriads  of  screaming  gulls,  boobies,  peli- 
cans and  wild  pigeons,  here  are  goats,  the  wild 
descendants  of  those  left  by  the  Spanish  pirates,  who 
used  to  plant  them  as  a  reserve  food  supply  that  would 
take  care  of  itself. 

The  rock  lies  a  third  of  a  mile  to  the  northward  of 
Isle  de  Ronde,  with  the  jagged  Les  Tantes  a  scant  two 
miles  to  the  eastward.  With  the  trades  blowing  fresh 
from  the  northeast  the  lee  tide  runs  through  the  pas- 
sage between  Isle  de  Ronde  and  Les  Tantes  at  a 
rate  of  three  knots  an  hour,  whirling  past  Kick  'em 
Jinny  in  a  northwesterly  direction — at  right  angles  to 
the  wind  and  sea.  The  weather  tide  in  returning  runs 
in  almost  the  opposite  direction  at  the  rate  of  a  knot 
and  a  half.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  constant 
northeasterly  winds  move  a  surface  current  of  water 
toward  the  southwest  so  that  this  confluence  of  wind 
and  current  makes  a  tide  rip  on  the  weather  side  of 
Kick  'em  Jinny,  from  which  its  name  is  derived. 

Now  you  may  ask,  as  I  did  when  I  discussed  the 
matter  with  my  friends  of  St.  George's  over  tall,  cool 
glasses  of  lime  squash — Why  not  sail  under  the  lee  of 
Kick  'em  Jinny?  If  I  sailed  under  the  lee  of  the  rock  I 
should  lose  much  valuable  ground  to  windward  while 


7£  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

if  I  fought  it  out  along  the  back  or  weather  side  of 
Ronde  and  Kick  'em  Jinny  and  then  made  a  port  tack 
to  Les  Tantes  I  should  be  in  the  best  possible  position 
for  my  jump  to  Carriacou.  That  point  settled,  it  was 
a  question  of  tides.  With  the  lee  tide  running  to  the 
north-north-west  I  might  not  be  able  to  clear  the 
rocky  windward  shore  on  my  starboard  tack,  and  it 
would  be  very  difficult  to  claw  off  on  the  port  tack,  the 
latter  being  to  eastward  and  away  from  shore. 

With  the  weather  tide,  however,  I  could  work  my 
way  off  shore  in  case  of  necessity,  but  I  should  be 
fighting  the  current  as  I  advanced  on  the  starboard 
tack.  With  the  weather  tide  I  should  encounter  the 
rougher  sea,  and  it  was  here  that  the  Yakaboo  would 
meet  her  pons  asinorum,  to  carry  out  the  idea  of  the 
seaMnule. 

Many  bets  had  been  offered  and  some  had  been 
taken  at  St.  George's  that  I  would  not  reach  Carriacou, 
which  implied  that  the  cruise  would  come  to  an  end 
off  Kick  'em  Jinny.  But  I  put  my  faith  in  one — my 
Man  Friday,  who  had  instructed  me  in  the  mysteries  of 
"de  lee  an'  wedder  toid,"  and  he  had  shown  me  how  to 
watch  the  weather  in  regard  to  the  changes  of  the 
moon.  During  my  stay  on  lle-de-Caille,  I  watched  the 
quarters  come  and  go  and  kept  track  of  the  moon  in 
order  to  note  the  changing  of  the  tides.  I  finally 
selected  a  day  when  the  second  quarter  had  promised 
steady  winds,  with  the  weather  tide  beginning  to  run 
at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  If  there  should  be 
any  doubt  as  to  the  weather  for  that  day,  that  doubt 
would  be  settled  by  the  time  the  weather  tide  had 


KICK  'EM  JINNY  73 

started.  With  everything  as  much  in  my  favour  as 
possible  I  would  make  the  attempt. 

I  slept  that  morning  till  the  sun  had  climbed  well 
up  the  back  of  Caille,  for  when  I  awoke  the  warm 
day  breezes  were  filtering  over  me  through  the  mos- 
quito bar.  I  must  have  eaten  breakfast,  but  later  in 
the  day  I  was  puzzled  to  remember  whether  I  had  or 
not.  My  mind  was  not  in  the  present,  nor  anywhere 
near  my  earthly  body — it  was  living  in  the  next  few 
hours  and  hovering  over  that  stretch  of  water  to  the 
eastward  of  Kick  'em  Jinny.  Bynoe  and  his  crew  were 
also  going  to  sail  northward  to  Cannouan  in  the 
Baltimore,  and  I  remember  standing  among  the  rocks 
of  the  whale  cove  bidding  good-bye  to  the  rest  of  the 
people.  The  few  shillings  I  gave  them  seemed  a 
princely  gift  and  tears  of  gratitude  streamed  down  the 
black  shiny  face  of  the  cook  when  I  presented  her 
with  a  bottle  of  rheumatism  cure. 

The  tide  would  turn  at  seven  minutes  after  the 
hour  and  three  minutes  later  the  Yakaboo  was  in  the 
water.  By  the  feel  of  her  as  she  bobbed  in  the  heave 
of  the  sea  I  knew  that  the  fight  was  on.  With  long 
rhythmic  strokes  the  whaleboat  swung  out  of  the  cove, 
the  canoe  moving  easily  alongside  like  a  remora. 
Cautiously  we  rowed  around  the  north  end  of  Caille, 
seeking  the  currentless  waters  close  to  shore.  When 
we  reached  the  windward  side  of  the  island  we  made 
sail.  It  did  not  take  many  minutes  to  see  that  the 
canoe  would  be  left  alone  in  her  fight  with  Kick  'em 
Jinny  for  the  whaleboat,  with  her  ballast  of  "rock- 
stone"  and  her  twelve  hundred  pounds  of  live 
weight  to  steady  her,  caught  the  wind  high  .above  the 


74  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

seas  with  her  tall  rig  and  worried  her  way  through  the 
jumble  in  a  way  that  made  me  forget,  in  a  moment  of 
admiration,  my  own  sailing. 

But  I  had  other  business  than  that  of  watching  the 
whaleboat.  As  I  hauled  in  the  sheet  to  lay  the  canoe 
on  the  starboard  tack,  a  sea  seemed  to  come  from 
nowhere  and  with  scant  invitation  dropped  aboard  and 
filled  the  cockpit.  It  was  like  starting  up  a  sleeping 
horse  with  an  inconsiderate  whip  lash.  The  Yakaboo 
shook  herself  and  gathered  herself  for  that  first  essay 
of  windward  work.  Try  as  she  would,  she  could  find 
no  ease  in  the  nasty,  steep  sea,  and  instead  of  working 
well  along  the  shore  of  Ronde  in  the  wake  of  the 
whaleboat,  she  barely  crossed  the  channel  from  Caille 
and  fetched  up  at  the  southern  tip  of  the  island. 

On  the  port  tack  to  sea  she  did  better,  although  the 
weather  tide  running  abeam  carried  us  back  off  Caille. 
We  made  perhaps  a  mile  to  the  eastward  and  then 
I  decided  to  try  the  starboard  tack  again.  The  canoe 
did  still  better  this  time — for  a  while — and  then  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  toils  of  Kick  'em  Jinny.  The 
tide  was  now  running  with  full  force  directly  against 
us  and  at  right  angles  to  the  wind.  There  seemed 
to  be  no  lateral  motion  to  the  seas,  they  rose  and  fell 
as  though  countless  imps  were  pushing  up  the  surface 
from  below  in  delirious  random.  One  moment  the 
canoe  would  be  poised  on  the  top  of  a  miniature  water 
column  to  be  dropped  the  next  in  a  hollow,  walled 
about  on  all  sides  by  masses  of  translucent  green  and 
blue  over  which  I  could  see  nothing  but  sky.  The  stiff 
wind  might  not  have  been  blowing  at  all,  it  seemed,  for 
the  sails  were  constantly  ashake,  while  the  centerboard 


KICK  'EM  JINNY  75 

rattled  in  its  casing  like  the  clapper  of  a  bell.  It  was 
not  sailing — it  was  riding  a  bronco  at  sea. 

Bynoe,  who  was  carrying  my  extra  food  supply  in 
the  whaleboat,  was  now  making  frantic  motions  for  me 
to  turn  back.  I  had  already  decided,  however,  that 
the  canoe  would  worry  her  way  through  and  I 
motioned  to  the  whalers  to  come  alongside.  With  the 
two  boats  rising  and  falling  beside  one  another,  as 
though  on  some  foreshortened  see-saw,  the  stuff  was 
transferred  from  the  whaleboat  to  the  canoe.  As  the 
whaleboat  rose  over  me  the  men  dropped  my  bags 
into  the  cockpit  with  an  accuracy  and  ease  of  aim 
acquired  from  years  of  life  in  just  such  jumping  water 
as  this.  The  canoe  sailor  must  at  times  not  only  be 
ambidextrous,  but  must  also  use  feet  and  teeth;  in 
fact,  he  must  be  an  all  around  marine  acrobat.  What 
wonders  we  could  perform  had  we  but  retained  the 
prehensile  tail  of  our  animal  ancestors!  So  with  the 
mainsheet  in  my  teeth  and  my  legs  braced  in  the  cock- 
pit, I  caught  the  bags  with  one  hand  and  with  the 
other  stowed  them  in  the  forward  end  of  the  well 
under  the  deck.  A  large  tin  of  sea  biscuit,  a  cubical 
piece  of  eight-cornered  wickedness,  which  would 
neither  stow  under  deck  nor  pass  through  the  hatches, 
required  two  hands  for  catching  and  stowing  and  a 
spare  line  to  lash  it  in  place  just  forward  of  my  blanket 
bag.  Then  they  screamed  "Good-bye"  at  me  across 
the  waves,  while  I  yelled  "Yakaboo,"  and  we  parted 
company.  Of  that  row  of  six  black  faces,  two  I  shall 
never  see  again  for  they  have  since  been  lost  in  the 
very  waters  where  we  said  "Good-bye. " 

Taking  quick  cross-bearings  by  eye  I  could  detect 


76  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

from  time  to  time  changes  in  the  position  of  the  canoe 
and  I  knew  that  there  was  some  advance  to  the  north- 
ward. Finally  we  were  so  close  to  Kick  'em  Jinny  that 
I  could  see  the  chamois-like  goats  stuck  on  its  sides  like 
blotched  rocks.  All  progress  seemed  to  cease  and  for 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  I  could  detect  no  change  of 
position.  No  stage  racehorse  ever  made  a  gamer 
fight  than  did  the  Yakaboo  against  her  ocean  treadmill. 
The  whaleboat  was  now  a  vanishing  speck  to  the  north- 
ward like  a  fixed  whitecap.  I  began  to  wonder  whether 
I  should  stick  in  this  position  till  the  coming  of  the  lee 
tide.  I  remember  contemplating  a  small  strip  of  beach 
on  Les  Tantes  where,  in  a  pinch,  I  might  land  through 
the  breast-high  surf  with  enough  food  to  last  till  the 
whalers  might  see  some  sign  that  I  could  put  up  on 
the  rocks. 

Suddenly  a  blinding  flash  brought  my  attention  from 
Les  Tantes  to  my  cockpit.  It  was  the  tin  of  sea  biscuit. 
The  water  sloshing  in  the  cockpit  had  softened  the 
glue  of  the  paper  covering.  Finally,  an  extra  large 
wave,  a  grandfather,  swept  the  paper  entirely  off,  leav- 
ing the  shiny  tin  exposed  to  the  brilliant  sun.  With  a 
sweep  I  cut  the  line,  and  the  next  instant  I  was  mourn- 
ing the  loss  of  a  week's  supply  of  sea  biscuit. 

The  forward  compartment  now  proved  to  be  leaking, 
through  the  deck  as  I  discovered  later,  at  just  the  time, 
when,  if  the  canoe  had  any  soul  at  all,  she  would  keep 
tight  for  my  sake.  I  shifted  my  outfit  as  far  aft  as 
possible  and  sponged  the  water  out  by  the  cupful  with 
one  hand  ready  to  slam  down  the  hatch  in  advance  of  a 
boarding  sea.  It  was  done — somehow — and  as  a 
reward  I  found  the  canoe  was  working  her  way  into 


KICK  'EM  JINNY  77 

easier  seas.  Then  she  began  to  sail  and  I  realised  that 
Kick  'em  Jinny  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  I  lay-to  off 
Les  Tantes,  having  travelled  three  miles  in  two  hours. 
We  had  not  conquered  Kick  'em  Jinny,  we  had  merely 
slipped  by  her  in  one  of  her  lighter  moods.  But  the 
canoe  had  stood  the  test  and  by  this  I  knew  that  she 
would  carry  me  through  the  rest  of  the  channel  to  Saint 
Vincent.  What  her  story  would  be  for  the  larger 
openings  of  from  twenty-five  to  nearly  forty  miles  yet 
remained  to  be  seen. 

With  her  heels  clear  of  Kick  'em  Jinny  the  Yakaboo 
travelled  easily  in  the  freer  waters  and  before  the  tide 
could  draw  me  out  into  the  Caribbean  I  was  well  under 
the  lee  of  Carriacou.  Another  half  hour  and  I  should 
have  had  to  fight  for  si*  hours  till  the  next  weather 
tide  would  help  me  back  to  land. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  I  stepped  out  of  the  canoe  on 
the  uninhabited  island  of  Mabouya,  which  lies  off  Car- 
riacou. The  beach  where  I  landed  was  typical  of  the 
few  low-lying  cays  of  the  Grenadines.  The  sand  strip, 
backed  by  a  cheval  de  frise  of  cactus,  curved  crescent- 
like, the  horns  running  into  sharp,  rocky  points  which 
confined  the  beach.  The  only  break  in  the  cactus  was 
a  clump  of  the  dreaded  manchioneel  trees  and  here  I 
decided  to  pitch  my  tent. 

Barbot,  in  relating  the  second  voyage  of  Columbus, 
says:  "On  the  shore  grow  abundance  of  mansanilla 
trees,  not  tall,  but  the  wood  of  them  fine,  the  leaves 
like  those  of  the  pear  tree,  the  fruit  a  sort  of  small 
apples,  whence  the  Spaniards  gave  them  the  name;  of 
so  fine  a  colour  and  pleasant  a  scent,  as  will  easily  invite 
such  as  are  unacquainted  to  eat  them;  but  containing  a 


78  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

mortal  poison,  against  which  no  antidote  has  any  force. 
The  very  leaf  of  it  causes  an  ulcer,  where  it  touches 
the  flesh,  and  the  dew  on  it  frets  off  the  skin;  nay  the 
very  shadow  of  the  tree  is  pernicious,  and  will  cause 
a  man  to  swell,  if  he  sleeps  under  it."  I  thought  I 
would  take  a  chance — perhaps  the  manchioneel  had 
become  softer  and  more  civilised  since  the  time  of 
Columbus. 

If  there  were  any  joy  in  the  feeling  of  relief  as  I 
walked  up  that  lonely  beach,  I  knew  it  not.  Tired  as 
I  was,  I  could  only  think  of  the  hard  work  that  I  had 
to  do  before  I  could  lie  down  to  rest.  The  Yakaboo 
had  been  leaking  steadily  all  day  long  and  she  now 
lay  where  I  had  left  her  in  a  foot  of  water,  with  my 
whole  outfit  except  my  camera  submerged.  This  did 
not  mean  that  everything  was  wet,  for  my  own  muslin 
bags,  honestly  oiled  and  dried,  would  keep  their  con- 
tents dry,  but  there  was  the  canoe  to  unload,  bail 
out  and  drag  ashore.  There  was  firewood  to  collect 
before  dark,  and  I  should  have  to  work  sharp  before 
sundown,  for  there  were  also  the  tent  to  pitch,  the 
supper  to  cook,  and  the  log  to  write. 

For  a  moment  I  stopped  to  look  at  the  glorious  sun 
racing  to  cool  himself  in  the  Caribbean,  and  I  gave 
thanks  for  a  strong  body  and  a  hopeful  heart.  In  two 
hours  I  was  sitting  under  the  peak  of  my  tent  on  my 
blanket  roll,  watching  my  supper  boil  in  a  little  pail 
over  a  lively  fire  of  hard  charcoals.  The  Yakaboo, 
bailed  out,  high  and  dry  on  the  beach,  skulked  in  the 
darkness  as  though  ashamed  to  come  near  the  fire. 

It  is  always  easy  to  say  "in  two  hours  I  was  doing 
so  and  so,"  but  to  the  man  who  lives  out  of  doors  and 


KICK  'EM  JINNY 


79 


is  constantly  using  his  wits  to  overcome  the  little 
obstacles  of  nature  those  "two  hours"  are  often  very 
interesting.  As  a  rule,  one  is  tired  from  the  clay's  work 
and  if  accidents  are  going  to  happen  they  are  apt  to 
happen  at  just  this  time.  The  early  stages  of  fatigue 
bring  on  carelessness,  and  to  the  experienced  man  the 
advanced  stages  of  fatigue  call  for  extreme  caution. 
Before  unloading  the  canoe,  I  should  have  decided  just 


FRONT 


BACK 


TOP 

My  Comstock  Tent 


where  I  would  place  my  tent  and  then  I  should  have 
beached  the  canoe  immediately  below  the  tent  if  pos- 
sible. As  it  was,  the  Yakaboo  was  sixty  yards  down 
the  beach  and  upon  returning  from  one  of  my  trips 
to  her  I  found  that  a  spark  from  the  fire  had  ignited 
my  oiled  dish  bag  which  was  burning  with  a  fierce  heat. 
This  had  started  the  bag  next  to  it  which  contained 
my  ammunition.  With  one  leap  I  landed  on  the  pre- 
cious high-power  cartridges  and  began  to  roll  over 
and  over  in  the  sand  with  the  burning  bag  in  my 


80  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

arms.  What  would  have  happened  had  one  of  my 
nine-millimeter  shells  exploded?  I  had  been  careless 
in  arranging  my  outfit  upon  the  sands  when  I  built 
the  fire. 

Troubles  never  come  singly — neither  do  they  travel 
in  pairs — they  flock.  I  remember  the  difficulty  I  had 
in  starting  the  fire.  The  tin  in  which  I  carried  my 
matches  was  absolutely  water-tight — I  have  proved 
that  since  by  submerging  it  in  a  bucket  of  water  for 
two  days  and  nights.  And  yet  when  I  came  to  open  the 
tin  I  found  that  the  tips  of  the  matches  were  deliques- 
cent. It  was  my  first  experience  in  tropical  cruising 
and  I  had  not  learned  that  the  heat  of  the  sun  could 
draw  the  moisture  out  of  the  wood  of  the  matches,  con- 
dense this  moisture  on  the  inside  of  the  tin,  and  melt 
the  tips.  I  found  some  safety  matches  tucked  away  in 
the  middle  of  my  clothes  bags  and  they  were  dry.  This 
became  my  method  of  carrying  matches  in  the  future. 
The  natives  carry  matches  in  a  bamboo  joint  with  a 
cork  for  a  stopper. 

And  now  that  I  have  taken  you  into  my  first  camp 
in  the  islands  I  shall  tell  you  briefly  of  the  various  parts 
of  my  outfit  as  it  was  finally  shaken  down  for  the 
cruise. 

My  tent  was  of  the  pyramidal  form  invented  by 
Comstock,  seven  feet  high  with  a  base  seven  feet 
square  and  having  the  peak  directly  over  the  centre  of 
the  forward  edge.  In  back  was  a  two  foot  wall.  It 
was  made  of  a  waterproof  mixture  of  silk  and  cotton, 
tinted  green,  and  weighed  eight  pounds.  My  mainmast 
served  as  a  tent  pole,  and  for  holding  down  I  used 
seventeen  pegs  made  of  the  native  cedar,  which  is  a 


MY   CAMP   AT    MABOUYA. 


f^ti 


LOADED    AND    READY    TO    GET    OFF. 


c     t 

•       a*       *      t * « * 
','/'«  t   «        •    •  •  I 


5. 


KICK  'EM  JINNY  81 

tough,  hard  wood  and  not  heavy.  For  my  purposes 
I  have  found  this  the  most  satisfactory  tent  for  varied 
cruising,  as  I  could  use  it  equally  well  ashore  or  rigged 
over  the  cockpit  of  the  Yakaboo  when  I  slept  aboard. 
Let  me  here  offer  a  little  prayer  of  thanks  to  Comstock. 
You  will  find  some  "improvement"  upon  his  idea  in 
almost  any  outfitter's  catalogue  and  given  any  name 
but  his — one  might  as  well  try  to  improve  it  as  to  alter 
a  Crosby  cat. 

For  sleeping  I  had  two  single  German  blankets, 
weighing  four  pounds  each.  In  place  of  the  usual 
rubber  blanket,  I  used  an  oiled  muslin  ground  cloth. 
My  blankets  were  folded  in  the  ground  cloth  in  such  a 
manner  that  upon  drawing  them  from  the  blanket 
bag,  I  could  roll  them  out  on  the  ground  ready  for 
turning  in.  The  blanket  bag  was  made  of  heavy  oiled 
canvas  with  the  end  turned  in  and  strapped  so  that  even 
when  it  lay  in  a  cockpit  half  full  of  water  its  contents 
would  still  remain  dry.  One  blanket  used  with  pa- 
jamas of  light  duck  would  have  been  ample,  so  far  as 
warmth  goes,  but  for  sleeping  in  the  cockpit  the  second 
blanket  served  as  a  padding  for  the  hard  floor. 

As  for  clothes,  I  started  out  with  a  heterogeneous 
collection  of  old  trousers,  shirts  and  socks,  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  law  of  the  survival  of  favourites, 
petered  out  to  two  pairs  of  light  woollen  trousers,  two 
light  flannel  shirts,  and  two  pairs  of  thin  woollen  socks. 
I  indulged  myself  in  half  a  dozen  new  sleeveless 
cotton  running  shirts,  dyed  red,  B.  V.  D.'s  to  corre- 
spond, and  a  dozen  red  cotton  bandana  handkerchiefs. 
For  footgear,  I  carried  a  pair  of  heavy  oiled  tan  shoes 
and  pig-skin  moccasins.    A  light  Swedish  dog-skin  coat 


82  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

and  a  brown  felt  hat  with  a  fairly  wide  brim,  com- 
pleted my  wardrobe. 

For  cooking  I  had  the  "Ouinnetka"  kit,  of  my  own 
design,  consisting  of  three  pails,  a  frypan,  two  covers, 
a  cup,  and  two  spoons,  all  of  aluminum,  which  nested 
and  held  a  dish  cloth  and  soap.  There  were  no 
handles,  a  pair  of  light  tongs  serving  in  their  stead. 
This  kit,  which  was  designed  for  two-man  use,  weighed 
a  trifle  under  three  pounds. 

The  rest  of  my  working  outfit  consisted  of  a  two 
pound  axe,  a  canoe  knife,  a  small  aluminum  folding 
candle  lantern,  two  one-gallon  water  cans,  and  a  ditty 
bag,  containing  a  sight  compass,  parallel  rule,  dividers, 
hypodermic  outfit,  beeswax,  and  the  usual  odds  and 
ends  which  one  carries.  For  sailing  I  used  a  two-inch 
liquid  compass.  This  working  outfit  totalled  forty- 
three  pounds.  Had  the  "butterfly"  continued  in 
service,  its  weight  would  have  added  a  pound  and  a 
half. 

My  food  at  the  outset  brought  this  weight  up  to 
eighty  pounds,  but  as  I  later  on  got  down  to  chocolate, 
erbswurst  and  the  native  foods,  there  was  a  reduction 
of  from  twenty  to  thirty  pounds. 

The  heaviest  single  unit  of  my  whole  outfit  was  a 
quarter-plate  Graflex,  which,  with  its  developing  tank 
and  six  tins  of  films,  added  twenty-six  pounds.  A  nine 
millimeter  Mannlicher,  .22  B.S.A.,  38-40  Colt,  a  deep 
sea  rod  and  reel,  shells,  and  tackle  brought  the  total 
up  to  120  pounds.  I  might  as  well  have  left  out  my 
armament  and  tackle  for  when  cruising  I  find  little 
time  for  shooting  or  fishing — I  would  rather  travel. 

My  charts,  twelve  in  number,  had  first  been  trimmed 


KICK  'EM  JINNY  83 

to  their  smallest  working  size  and  then  cut  into  eight- 
inch  by  ten-inch  panels  and  mounted  on  muslin  with 
half  an  inch  separating  the  edges  so  that  they  could  be 
folded  to  show  uppermost  whatever  panel  I  happened 
to  be  sailing  on.  The  charts  with  my  portfolio  I  kept 
in  a  double  bag  in  the  aft  end  of  the  cockpit. 

The  various  parts  of  my  outfit  were  in  bags  having 
long  necks  which  could  be  doubled  over  and  securely 
tied.  These  were  made  of  unbleached  muslin,  oiled 
with  a  mixture  of  raw  and  boiled  linseed  oil  and  turpen- 
tine. After  a  wet  bit  of  sailing,  when  the  canoe  had  at 
times  literally  gone  through  the  seas  and  there  was 
water  in  every  compartment,  it  was  a  great  comfort 
to  find  the  entire  outfit  quite  dry. 

The  weight  of  the  Yakaboo,  with  her  rig  and  outfit 
aboard,  varied  from  260  to  290  pounds — not  much 
more  than  that  of  an  ordinary  rowboat. 

Nothing  is  so  unalloyed  as  the  joy  of  pottering  over 
a  hot,  little  fire  when  the  stomach  cries  out  and  the 
body  tingles  with  the  healthy  fatigue  of  work  in  the 
open.  My  spirit  was  at  ease,  for  the  canoe  had  proven 
herself  and  even  if  she  did  leak,  I  was  getting  used  to 
that — as  one  becomes  used  to  a  boil  on  the  neck.  To 
lie  on  my  blankets — no  bed  was  ever  so  welcome — and 
to  eat  and  watch  the  last  light  fade  from  the  hills  of 
Carriacou  made  me  glad  that  I  had  been  put  on  this 
earth  to  live.  After  supper  the  companionable  purr  of 
my  faithful  pipe  made  just  the  conversation  to  suit  my 
mood.  The  night  was  soft  and  balmy,  and  as  I  lay 
and  watched  the  brilliant  constellations  of  the  tropical 
night  the  lap-lap  of  the  water  on  the  smooth  sands 
lulled  me  off  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  IVi 

CARRIACOU — MAYERO — BEQUIA 

THE  next  moment  I  was  sitting  up,  blinking  into 
the  fiery  face  of  the  sun  that  had  slipped  around 
the  earth  and  was  bobbing  up  again  in  the  east. 

It  was  not  the  sandy  beach,  the  blue  stretch  of  wind- 
livened  water  nor  the  picturesque  hills  of  Carriacou, 
rising  up  before  me,  that  alone  brought  happiness,  for, 
as  my  eye  wandered  down  the  beach,  I  saw  the  buoyant, 
jaunty  Yakaboo,  and  there  came  over  me  the  happy 
satisfaction  that  the  cruise  was  mine.  My  eye  beheld 
her  with  the  fondness  of  a  parent  for  its  child — if 
only  she  did  not  leak. 

Not  until  I  had  cooked  and  eaten  breakfast  and 
was  stowing  my  outfit  into  the  canoe  did  I  think  of  the 
mascot  I  had  brought  with  me  from  Caille.  I  found 
his  house  in  the  forward  end  of  the  cockpit,  unglued 
by  the  wash  of  the  day  before  and  empty.  I  am  not 
sentimental  by  nature  and  I  did  not  mourn  his  black 
hairy  little  body,  which  no  doubt,  by  this  time,  was 
being  carried  far  out  into  the  Caribbean.  I  did  thank 
him,  or  rather  her,  for  I  found  out  afterwards  that  it 
was  a  female,  for  the  service  she  had  rendered  as  a 
mascot  in  my  sail  around  Kick  'em  Jinny.  I  did  not 
know,  in  fact,  that  she  was  still  with  the  ship  and 
would  be  my  mascot  for  some  time  to  come. 

84 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  85 

When  I  ran  alongside  the  jetty  of  the  pretty  little 
town  of  Hillsboro,  on  the  shores  of  Carriacou,  a  blue- 
jacketed  sailor  pointed  to  where  I  might  beach  the 
canoe,  and  said,  "Mr.  Smith  is  expecting  you  in  his 
office,"  a  prosaic  remark,  more  fitting  to  the  tenth 
floor  above  Broadway  than  to  the  beach  of  a  West 
Indian  island.  I  had  scarcely  beached  the  canoe  and 
was  walking  across  the  hot  stretch,  curling  my  toes  un- 
der me  to  ease  my  soles  on  the  blistering  sands,  when 
Mr.  Smith  met  me,  a  tall,  spare  figure,  accentuated  in 
its  leanness  by  the  bulky  helmet  of  the  tropics.  I  liked 
him  instantly.  He  was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  strong, 
energetic  and  young  for  his  age.  There  was  a  bit  of 
a  brogue  in  his  speech — he  was  an  Irishman — with  a 
university  training  and  cultured  as  such  men  usually 
are,  but  still  with  an  Irishman's  fondness  for  the  world. 
Perhaps  my  liking  was  part  of  a  mutual  feeling  for  he 
immediately  asked  me  to  spend  a  few  days  with  him  at 
Top  Hill.  A  cosy  berth  was  found  for  the  Yakaboo 
in  a  boatshed  near  by,  built,  for  the  sake  of  coolness, 
like  the  cotton  ginnery  of  St.  George's,  with  open 
sides. 

Carriacou  might  be  called  the  Utopia  of  the  Grena- 
dines. It  is  here  that  the  work  of  one  man  stands  out 
and  is  not  lost.  Officially  Whitfield  Smith  is  known 
as  the  Commissioner,*  in  reality  he  is  a  potentate,  while 
among  his  people  he  is  known  as  "Papa."  Paternal 
is  the  rule  of  this  man,  which,  after  all,  is  the  way  all 
governing  should  be  done.  And  still  with  his  paternal 
feeling   and   his   kindness,    there    is   no    undermining 

*  Whitfield  Smith  has  been   Commissioner   at   Grand   Turk   since 
1915. 


86  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

familiarity.  Justice,  one  feels,  holds  out  her  delicately- 
balanced  scales  and  there  is  no  chance  for  her  eye  to 
pierce  the  blindfold.  As  in  all  the  West  Indies,  there 
is  very  little  crime,  petty  theft  and  small  squabbles 
being  the  principal  offences.  Swearing  is  a  punishable 
offence  and  one  hears  but  little  profanity.  The  detec- 
tion of  crime  is  no  disgrace  and  one  does  not  lose  caste 
upon  being  haled  into  court.  Let  the  prisoner  be  con- 
victed and  imprisoned  and  he  is  forever  disgraced. 

The  curse  of  the  black  man  is  laziness  and  the  curse 
of  the  islands  is  the  ease  with  which  life  may  be  sus- 
tained. To  these  may  be  added  a  warped  idea  regard- 
ing the  tilling  of  the  soil.  There  is  deep  rooted  from 
the  times  of  the  old  planters  the  West  Indian  notion 
that  no  gentleman  dare  use  his  hands  in  manual  labour. 
The  West  Indian  negro  who  has  received  a  small 
smattering  of  an  education  spurns  hard  work  and  goes 
to  the  towns,  where  he  can  obtain  a  position  as  a 
clerk  in  a  store.  In  this  way  the  fields  come  to  be 
neglected  and  labour  is  actually  imported  for  the  tilling 
of  the  soil.  The  black  man  wants  to  attain  his  estate 
by  revolution — not  physical  but  mental — while  this 
can  only  come  by  a  long  process  of  evolution.  In  his 
period  of  transition  he  should  be  guided  by  the  highest 
type  of  white  man,  broad  minded,  virile,  keen  and 
human.  Given  authority  to  govern  a  small  community, 
such  as  that  of  Carriacou,  and  the  right  man's  influence 
for  good  among  the  people  is  infinite.  The  ease  with 
which  he  can  accomplish  reforms  is  astonishing.  For 
instance,  on  my  first  day  at  Carriacou  I  remarked  to 
Smith  that  there  seemed  to  be  scarcely  any  mosquitoes, 
indeed,  I  had  not  seen  any,  a  remarkable  circumstance 


:  :;».:; 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  87 

in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  land  immediately  to  the 
southeast  of  the  town  was  low  and  swampy. 

"You  will  have  a  hard  time  finding  any  on  the  island 
now,  although  we  have  a  few  in  the  rainy  season." 

"Kerosene  and  mosquito  bar?"  I  asked. 

"No,  million-fish.  In  Barbados,"  continued  Smith, 
"it  was  noticed  that  on  certain  fresh-water  ponds  there 
seemed  to  be  no  mosquitoes.  Upon  investigation  it 
was  found  that  these  ponds  were  the  habitat  of  the 
'tap  minnow'  (Girardinus  poeciloides)  or  'million- 
fish,'  as  it  is  called,  and  that  these  small  fellows  ate 
the  larvae  of  the  mosquito  as  they  rose  to  the  surface 
of  the  water.  The  fish  were  introduced  to  other  ponds, 
water  tanks  and  rain  barrels,  with  the  result  that  there 
was  a  considerable  reduction  of  the  pest.  I  sent  for 
some  of  the  fish,*  and  put  them  on  exhibition  in  a  large 
glass  jar  in  my  office.  Then  I  asked  the  people  to 
bring  in  all  the  larvae  they  could  find  floating  on  the 
top  of  the  water  in  rain  barrels,  tanks  and  so  on.  As 
soon  as  the  larvae  were  put  in  the  jar,  the  million-fish 
swam  to  the  surface  and  gobbled  them  up.  Then  I  told 
the  people  that  if  they  put  million-fish  in  all  the  places 
where  mosquitoes  breed,  the  eggs  would  be  eaten  up 
and  there  would  be  no  more  malaria,  filaria,  and  so 
forth.  It  was  the  best  kind  of  an  object  lesson.  The 
fish  were  put  in  all  the  small  ponds,  tanks  and  barrels 
and  they  multiplied  till  there  were  enough  to  distribute 
all  over  the  island." 

In  a  similarly  easy  manner  he  disposed  of  a  trouble- 
some labour  problem.     The  British  government  allows 

*  The  males  are  an  inch  long,  silvey-grey  in  color  and  with  a  red 
spot  on  each  side  near  the  head.  The  females  are  about  an  inch  and 
a  quarter  long  but  have  no  red  spot 


88  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

six  hundred  pounds  to  be  spent  yearly  for  the  mainte- 
nance and  building  of  roads  in  Carriacou.  The  work  is 
done  by  native  women  who  receive  nine  pence  a  day 
or  eighteen  cents  in  our  money.  Smith  found  that 
there  were  more  women  dependent  upon  the  road  work 
for  their  livelihood  than  he  could  employ  at  one  time 
and  the  solution  was  suggested  by  the  so-called  'pater- 
nal system*  used  in  St.  Thomas.  He  secured  a  list  of 
all  the  road  workers  on  the  island.  Of  this  list  he 
works  forty  each  week,  by  rote,  and  in  this  way  the 
government  road  money  is  fairly  distributed.  He  is 
more  like  the  owner  of  a  large  estate  than  an  employe 
of  the  British  government  ruling  a  small  island  for  a 
salary.  I  decided  that  there  might  be  worse  places  to 
live  in  than  Carriacou  and  that  with  a  man  like  Smith 
on  the  island  one's  mind  would  not  go  altogether 
fallow.  Perhaps  my  liking  for  the  island  was  strength- 
ened when  I  walked  into  a  neat  little  store,  not  unlike 
the  kind  one  finds  in  a  new  suburb  of  a  progressive  city. 
Here  I  could  buy  small  cans  of  white  lead  and  paint, 
commodities  I  could  not  find  in  St.  George's,  and  I 
found  sandpaper  that  had  not  lain  in  mouldy  disuse 
since  the  times  of  the  pirates. 

As  the  day  cooled  into  evening,  I  walked  out  to  the 
end  of  the  jetty  to  contemplate  the  sunset  and  smoke  a 
quiet  pipe.  To  the  west  Mabouya,  where  I  had 
camped  the  night  before,  hung  a  persistent  little  patch 
which  resisted  the  efforts  of  the  trade  to  wash  it  away 
towards  the  horizon  of  ragged  clouds.  To  the  north 
jagged  Union  rose,  the  highest  of  all  the  Grenadines — - 
but  here  my  peace  came  to  an  end. 

"What  is  your  reputation?"  broke  upon  my  ears.    I 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  89 

faced  about  to  find  an  officious  native  in  a  white  linen 
suit,  cane  and  panama  hat  standing  by  me.  While  I 
was  groping  feverishly  in  my  mind  for  a  suitable  reply, 
a  native  policeman  stepped  up  and  hustled  off  his  com- 
patriot before  I  should  forever  disgrace  myself  in  this 
island  of  soft  language.  I  was  no  longer  in  the  mood 
for  sunsets  and  I  turned  shorewards  to  find  Smith  pre- 
paring for  the  drive  to  his  home  at  Top  Hill.  The 
twilight  merged  into  the  pale  light  of  the  new  moon 
and  as  we  slowly  climbed  the  hills  Smith  talked  about 
his  island. 

"That  is  our  botanical  garden,"  he  said,  pointing  out 
an  acre  or  two  of  planted  land  that  looked  like  a  truck 
garden,  "limes,  water  lemons,  and  a  flower  garden  so 
that  we  can  make  up  a  bouquet  when  we  have  a 
wedding,  you  know." 

On  our  way  we  met  a  Yellow  Carib  from  Demerara. 
He  was  the  second  Carib  that  I  had  seen  and  joy  came 
with  the  thought  that  in  Saint  Vincent  I  should  find 
more  of  them,  the  last  remnant  of  the  Yellow  Carib  in 
the  Lesser  Antilles. 

We  had  no  sooner  alighted  in  the  courtyard  at  Top 
Hill  than  Smith  bounded  ahead  of  me  and,  standing 
on  the  top  step  of  his  verandah  waited  for  me  with 
outstretched  hand,  and  said,  "Welcome  to  Top  Hill." 
There  was  a  warmth  about  it  that  I  shall  never  forget. 

With  us  was  MacQueen,  an  engineer,  who  might 
have  been  taken  out  of  one  of  Kipling's  Indian  stories. 
The  two  were  in  a  mood  for  stories  that  night,  stories, 
for  the  most  part,  of  the  natives,  showing  their  craze 
for  the  spectacular,  their  excitability,  and  the  ease  with 
which  they  can  be  fooled. 


90  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

"Did  you  ever," — there  was  a  slight  burr  in  the 
"ever," — "did  you  everr  hear  the  one  about  New 
Year's  Eve  at  Goyave,  Mac?" 

"Not  in  recent  years,"  said  Mac — and  we  have  the 
story. 

"Times  had  been  prosperous  and  the  priest  was 
looking  forward  to  a  large  contribution  at  the  mass 
which  was  to  see  the  Old  Year  out  and  the  New  Year 
in.  He  had  arranged  an  impressive  ceremony,  not  the 
least  part  of  which  was  the  shooting  of  fireworks  on  the 
precise  stroke  of  twelve.  Rockets  were  planted  in  the 
churchyard  behind  the  gravestones,  and  a  boy  was  sta- 
tioned to  touch  off  the  fuses  at  the  given  time.  The 
church  was  packed  and  in  the  dim  candle  light  the  priest 
struck  awe  into  the  souls  of  his  congregation  as  he  told 
them  what  a  hell  they  were  surely  going  to  if  they  did 
not  repent.  He  spoke  with  the  fervour  of  a  man 
working  for  that  which  was  nearest  his  heart — money. 

"The  emotional  natives  became  conscience-stricken 
as  they  thought,  childlike,  of  their  many  misdeeds  and 
there  was  the  terror  of  hell  in  that  blubbering  crowd. 
But  there  was  a  chance — a  very  small  one,  in  truth — 
and  the  priest  pointed  to  that  heaven  for  which  they 
could  make  a  fresh  start  with  the  coming  of  the  New 
Year.  As  he  raised  his  hand  aloft,  the  boy  thought  it 
was  the  signal  for  the  fireworks.  In  the  dramatic 
pause  that  followed  the  priest's  warning,  the  awesome 
silence  was  intensified  by  the  spasmodic  snivelling  of 
the  people. 

"Suddenly  there  was  a  blinding  flash,  and  a  hissing 
rocket  spurned  its  way  heavenward.  Another  rocket, 
and  then  a  bomb  exploded.     The  boy  was  doing  his 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  91 

part  well.  To  the  frightened  congregation  the  end  of 
the  world  must  be  at  hand.  With  a  roar  of  terror,  they 
rushed  from  the  church  taking  their  pennies  with 
them." 

uO  Lord,"  said  Smith,  the  tears  rolling  down  his 
cheeks,  "the  poor  priest  was  out  the  price  of  the  fire- 
works and  lost  his  contribution." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Mac,  "he  more  than  made  up  for 
it  in  confession  fees  for  he  knew  that  his  people  were 
uneasy  of  conscience." 

"And  talking  about  graveyards  reminds  me  of  a 
burial  we  once  had  during  the  rainy  season,"  continued 
Smith.  "A  man  had  died  of  fever  one  hot  afternoon 
and  I  decided  to  have  him  buried  that  night.  He  was 
laid  out  and  I  ordered  a  carpenter  to  make  a  box  for 
him.  By  ten  o'clock  the  box  was  ready  and  we  started 
down  the  hill.  There  was  no  moon  and  the  clouds  shut 
out  the  starlight.  It  was  black  as  pitch  and  before  the 
days  when  we  had  a  good  road  up  from  town.  There 
were  three  of  us  carrying  the  corpse,  myself,  the  doc- 
tor and  my  man,  while  the  priest  walked  on  ahead 
chanting  the  Resurrection.  We  had  no  sooner  started 
than  it  began  to  rain.  Not  an  ordinary  rain  or  a 
shower,  but  the  torrential  downpour  of  the  tropics.  In 
a  short  time  the  roadway  was  a  slippery  downward 
surface  over  which  we  were  fighting  to  keep  the  box 
with  its  contents  from  getting  away  from  us.  All  this 
time  that  lazy  beggar  was  walking  ahead  of  us  chanting 
in  a  loud  voice  for  us  to  follow.  The  doctor,  who  was 
a  crusty  old  Scotchman,  slipped  and  fell,  pulling  the  box 
down  with  him.  Then,  before  we  could  take  it  up 
again,  he  gave  it  a  push  and  it  coasted  down  the  hill, 


92  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

catching  up  the  priest  on  its  way.  As  the  black-robed 
priest  disappeared  astride  the  coffin,  the  doctor  yelled, 
'Gae  'lang  wid  ye  and  yeer  Resurrection.'  " 

The  next  day  was  the  fifth  of  the  moon.  In  these 
latitudes  where  the  moon  seems  to  have  a  decided 
influence  upon  the  weather,  there  is  a  strong  tendency 
towards  squalls  on  or  about  the  fifth  day  of  the  new 
moon.  Captain  Woolworth,  in  his  book  "Nigh  onto 
Sixty  Years  at  Sea,"  mentions  the  fact  that  whenever 
he  ran  into  trouble  it  was  almost  invariably  on  the  fifth 
day  of  the  new  moon.  Most  of  his  voyages  were  made 
in  the  tropics.  Smith  called  my  attention  to  the  weather 
on  this  day  and  I  was  careful  to  note  every  fifth  day 
during  the  rest  of  my  six  months  in  the  tropics.  Almost 
without  fail,  from  the  third  to  the  sixth  day  and  gen- 
erally on  the  fifth- day  of  the  first  quarter  there  was 
trouble  at  sea.  Conditions  generally  were  unsettled. 
Heavy  squalls  would  blow  down  like  the  beginnings  of 
small  hurricanes.  Often  I  could  count  four  or  five 
squalls  at  one  time  whipping  up  as  many  spots  on  the 
sea  to  a  fury  of  white  caps  and  spindrift.  There  is 
something  uncanny  in  the  way  in  which  the  moon  seems 
to  affect  the  weather  in  these  parts  and  I  have  often 
thought  that  the  superstition  of  the  negro  is  not  to 
be  wondered  or  sneered  at. 

The  next  day  the  weather  was  settled  and  continued 
so  for  the  rest  of  that  quarter. 

While  overhauling  my  outfit  which  I  had  dumped 
in  a  corner  of  Smith's  office  I  again  came  upon  my  little 
mascot.  I  was  untying  a  bag  containing  a  few  small 
bits  of  Carib  pottery,  which  I  had  dug  up  near 
Sauteurs    in    Grenada,    when    a    black    fuzzy    object 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  93 

jumped  from  the  heap  of  duffle  before  me  and 
scampered  across  the  floor. 

"Hello!    Who's  your  friend ?"  asked  Smith. 

"Oh,  that's  my  mascot,"  I  answered,  as  I  dashed 
after  her  on  all  fours. 

"Devil  a  fine  mascot!  Why  don't  you  get  a  nice 
loving  snake?  Here!  Take  this!"  said  Smith,  as  he 
handed  me  a  paper  box  cover.  Having  recaptured  the 
tarantula  I  told  the  story  of  the  luck  she  had  brought 
me  on  my  sail  around  Kick  'em  Jinny.  I  was  afraid  that 
she  might  get  into  my  blanket  some  time  and  bite  me, 
so  I  took  her  life  and  carried  her  hairy  carcass  in  a 
cotton-padded  pasteboard  box.  I  believe  that  after 
death  her  spirit  hovered  over  the  masts  of  the  Yakaboo 
and  that  she  bore  me  no  ill  will,  for  luck  stayed  with 
me  for  the  rest  of  the  cruise. 

Having  remained  over  the  fifth  day,  I  sailed  for  new 
islands  and  landed  on  picturesque  Frigate,  which  lies 
off  Union.  Here  I  found  an  abundance  of  wood  and 
was  soon  enjoying  the  crackle  of  a  little  blaze.  It  was 
good  to  be  a  Robinson  Crusoe  again,  if  only  for  a  few 
hours.  Before  me  on  the  beach  lay  the  Yakaboo,  her 
porpoise-like  body  suggesting  more  of  the  fish  than  the 
boat.  Across  a  shallow  bay,  floored  with  white  coral 
sand  that  gave  it  the  appearance  of  a  marble  floored 
pool,  Union  rose  a  thousand  feet. 

I  could  make  out  the  houses  of  a  village,  climbing 
above  the  shores  of  the  bay,  the  most  remarkable  of 
its  kind  in  the  whole  range  of  the  Lesser  Antilles,  for 
I  found  that  here  one  may  see  a  thousand  natives, 
living  in  small  huts  clustered  close  together,  in  exactly 
the  way  their  ancestors  lived  two  hundred  years  ago, 


94  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

when  they  were  first  brought  over  from  Africa.  One 
change  only  from  the  early  days — that  of  clothing. 
The  men  wear  trousers  and  shirts  and  the  women  wear 
skirts.  Remove  their  civilised  rags  and  you  have  them 
as  they  were  in  Africa.  I  have  heard  that  in  some  of 
the  smaller  and  even  more  out  of  the  way  cays  of  the 
Grenadines  the  natives  live  among  themselves  with 
no  clothing  but  the  breech  cloth.  May  the  eye  of  my 
camera  see  them  thus  in  their  natural  state  on  some 
future  cruise. 

While  I  was  cooking  my  chocolate,  a  little  open  boat 
had  been  sailing  down  the  wind  from  the  eastward.  As 
she  beached  close  to  the  Yakaboo,  two  black  men 
jumped  out  of  her  while  something  in  the  stern 
unfolded  its  attenuated  length  and  I  recognised 
Walker,  famous  as  the  tallest  man  throughout  these 
islands.  I  knew  him  before  I  saw  him — that  is  all  of 
him — for  it  takes  two  looks  to  get  in  his  full  height. 
My  eye  wandered  up  and  down  his  length  as  one  views 
a  tall  waterfall  close  by. 

The  British  government  had  but  lately  taken  over 
Union  Island  from  private  owners  and  it  had  been 
Walker's  duty  to  survey  and  divide  up  the  land  so  that 
it  can  be  sold  in  small  parcels  to  the  natives.  With 
the  strength  and  perseverance  of  one  charmed, 
Walker  has  carried  his  transit  in  the  fierce  noon  heat 
and  cut  his  lines  through  the  brush.  The  soft  tissue  of 
his  body  has  long  since  run  off  in  perspiration  so  that 
there  is  little  left  for  the  sun  to  work  upon.  He  goes 
about  his  work  unmindful,  wearing  a  flannel  shirt  with 
a  double  thickness  over  his  spine  and  a  large  hat,  which 
gives  him  the  appearance  of  an  animated  umbrella. 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  95 

He  has  other  dimensions  besides  height  I  found,  one  of 
them  being  breadth  of  heart. 

No  introduction  was  necessary  for  I  had  long  since 
heard  of  the  tall  Walker,  and  he  had  expected  my 
coming  long  before  he  made  out  the  butterfly  rig  of 
the  Yakaboo  zig-zag  its  way  up  to  the  beach  on  Frigate. 

During  our  conversation  I  admitted  some  knowledge 
of  drafting,  upon  which  Walker  said,  "Come  over  to 
Union  and  help  me  finish  a  map  of  the  island  and  then 
we  can  take  off  a  few  days  for  a  little  loaf."  And  so 
it  came  to  pass  that  my  little  green  tent  remained  in 
its  bag  in  the  forehold  of  the  canoe  and  I  became  for 
a  time  an  inhabitant  of  Union. 

A  span  of  not  much  more  than  three  nautical  miles 
separates  the  islands  of  Carriacou  and  Union  and  yet 
the  natives  of  Union  differ  from  those  of  her  neighbour 
by  nearly  as  many  hundred  years.  Up  to  a  short  time 
before  I  landed  on  the  island,  Union  had  been  owned 
by  one  man  or  one  family  from  the  time  of  its  dis- 
covery. There  had  been  one  house  in  which  the  owner 
lived — on  the  top  of  a  hill.  It  was  now  occupied  by 
Rupert  Otway,  who  represented  the  British  govern- 
ment. Another  house  stood  "down  de  bay,"  in  which 
the  overseer  had  lived  while  the  rest  of  the  population 
— slaves — had  lived  huddled  together  in  the  towns  of 
Ashton  and  Clifton. 

In  1838  the  slaves  were  freed  and  from  that  time 
the  prosperity  of  the  island  began  to  wane.  But  the 
blacks  continued  to  live  there,  holding  no  property,  a 
few  of  them  working  half-heartedly  for  the  white  man 
and  the  rest  dragging  out  a  mere  existence  from  the 
fish  of  the  sea.     Now  the  government  has  bought  the 


96  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

island  and  the  ideal  thing  is  being  done — that  is,  the 
island  is  being  divided  into  small  plots,  which  are  held 
out  with  every  inducement  for  the  native  to  buy.  The 
cash  price  is  cheap,  from  four  to  eight  pounds  per 
acre.  There  is  also  a  system  of  payments  arranged  so 
that  the  most  impoverished  native  can  take  up  a  small 
piece  of  land  and  from  it  work  out  the  price  to  pay 
for  it. 

Not  the  least  charm  of  these  islands  are  the  small 
private  forts  which  one  finds  hidden  in  the  bush  which 
has  overgrown  the  top  of  some  hill  of  vantage,  leaving 
scant  evidence  to  the  casual  eye  of  some  small  pile  of 
heavy  masonry,  the  name  and  origin  of  which  may  have 
been  long  since  forgotten.  At  the  time  of  the 
Napoleonic  Wars,  when  these  islands  were  immensely 
rich  in  sugar,  the  estate  owners  were  forced  to  defend 
themselves  from  the  depredations  of  the  privateers 
who  infested  these  waters  like  the  sharks  that  swim  in 
them.  For  this  purpose  the  old  estate  owners  built 
private  forts,  one  of  which  I  found  on  Union,  undis- 
turbed in  its  state  of  dilapidation,  four  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea,  on  the  top  of  an  isolated  hill  so  over- 
grown with  cactus  that  we  had  to  cut  our  way  to  it. 

Otway  gave  me  a  temporary  Man  Friday  and  after 
an  hour's  work  with  our  cutlasses  we  had  cleared  away 
enough  of  the  cactus  so  that  we  could  walk  about  on 
the  rampart.  The  top  was  five-sided,  not  an  exact 
pentagon,  about  fifty  feet  in  diameter.  Here  were  four 
old  cannon,  lying  as  they  had  long  ago  sunk  through 
their  rotting  carriages  to  rest,  still  pointing  in  the  direc- 
tion of  their  old  enemies.  One  aimed  at  Mayero,  two 
miles  away,  another  covered  the  channel  to  the  east, 


)       >  >       >      5 


CASSAVA  CAKES   DRYING  ON  A  ROOF  AT   MAYERO.     RUINS   OF  THE 
OLD  ESTATE    HOUSE   OF  THE   ST.    HILAIRES    IN   THE   BACKGROUND. 


DRYING   THE   CASSAVA,    ISLE   DE   RONDE. 


r  •  ••; 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  97 

a  third  at  one  time  dropped  its  death  on  Prune,  while 
the  fourth  guarded  the  little  bay  where  the  ruins  of 
the  old  storehouse  or  cabaret  still  stands.  The  romance 
of  it  all  seemed  intensified  in  the  fierce  noonday  sun 
and  it  required  little  imagination  to  picture  the  days 
when  fighting  was  an  earnest  sport.  In  the  center  stood 
the  stepping  for  the  flagstaff,  the  staff  itself  doubtless 
long  since  appropriated  for  the  mast  of  some  native 
sloop  that  may  even  now  be  resting  deep  down  at  the 
foot  of  Kick  'em  Jinny.  As  the  negro  uses  his  horse 
till  it  drops,  so  he  uses  his  sloop  till  at  last  a  fierce 
squall  gets  him — "all  standing"  and  she  sinks  with  her 
fear-paralysed  crew,  leaving  no  sign,  but  a  hatch  or  a 
broken  bit  of  spar  which  drifts  away  towards  the 
setting  sun.* 

Under  the  steps,  which  descend  from  the  rampart, 
was  the  powder  magazine,  still  intact,  resembling  an 
old-fashioned  bake  oven — and  this  reminded  me  that 
I  was  due  at  Government  house  for  luncheon. 

The  next  day  as  I  tried  to  leave  Union,  faulty  navi- 
gation on  the  part  of  the  skipper  caused  the  center- 
board  of  the  Yakaboo  to  run  afoul  of  a  reef.  The 
Yakaboo  got  the  worst  of  it  and  I  had  to  put  back  for 
repairs.  I  was  on  my  way  to  Mayero.  Both  Walker 
and  Otway  were  glad  to  see  me  back  in  Union  and  no 
sooner  had  I  landed  than  they  ordered  their  man  to 
carry  the  canoe  up  the  hill  to  a  shady  place,  where  a 
native  carpenter  could  relieve  me  of  the  work  of  repair- 
ing her.    This  done,  Otway  seemed  to  remember  that 

*  In  nearly  all  cases  of  loss  at  sea  in  these  waters,  there  remains 
not  the  slightest  trace  of  the  missing  boat  or  crew  and  the  relatives 
blubber  for  a  day  or  two,  murmur,  "It  wuz  de  will  ob  de  Lard"  and 
the  tale  becomes  history. 


98  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

he  owed  Mayero  a  visit  in  his  official  capacity,  Walker 
decided  to  take  a  day  off,  and  the  three  of  us  sailed 
across  in  the  little  government  sloop. 

Our  landing  on  Mayero  was  a  strange  performance. 
The  beach  was  steep-to  with  a  fathom  of  water  less 
than  a  boat's  length  from  dry  sand.  We  threw  out 
an  anchor  astern  and  then  ran  the  sloop  inshore  till 
her  bowsprit  hung  over  the  surf.  Taking  off  our 
clothes,  we  tied  them  together  with  our  belts  and  threw 
them  high  up  on  the  beach.  Three  splashes  followed 
and  we  crawled  ashore  and  dressed.  After  a  climb  of 
about  fifteen  minutes  we  gained  the  top  of  the  island, 
where  "Miss  Jane-Rose"  rules  her  little  domain. 

Mayero  is  one  of  those  romance  islands  where  in 
its  stagnation  one  can  trace  a  past  once  beautiful,  now 
pathetic.  At  the  time  of  the  unrest  in  France,  a  cadet 
branch  of  the  Saint-Hilaire  family  came  to  this  island, 
thrived,  and  finally  died  with  the  ebbing  fortunes  of 
sugar  cane.  The  last  descendant  of  this  famous  old 
family,  one  of  which  was  a  lady-in-waiting  to  the 
Empress  Josephine  at  Malmaison,  still  governs  the 
island  under  a  sort  of  feudal  system.  Her  name  is 
Jane-Rose  de  Saint-Hilaire,*  and  she  is  a  bright,  keen 
woman  of  about  fifty,  who  rules  her  subjects  with  a 
firm  hand  and  who  talks  well.  The  two  hundred 
inhabitants,  more  or  less,  representing  eighty  families, 
on  the  island,  are,  for  the  most  part,  descendants  of 
the  slaves  of  the  old  Saint-Hilaires,  and  one  can  still 
see  in  their  faces  the  vanishing  trace  of  the  French 
aristocracy  like  a  thin  outcropping  of  gold  in  the  baser 
rock. 

♦Miss  Jane-Rose  died  in  Feb.,  1915. 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  99 

Each  family  is  allowed  to  erect  a  hut  free  of  charge 
of  any  kind.  This  hut  is  roofed  with  Guinea  grass 
straw  and  sided  with  wattles,  cut  on  the  island,  and 
plastered  with  mud.  Most  of  the  huts  are  floored  with 
American  lumber.  Each  able-bodied  inhabitant  is 
allowed  as  many  acres  as  he  or  she  cares  to  cultivate, 
on  the  metayer  or  share  system.  By  this  arrangement 
of  land  tenure,  at  the  time  of  harvest  the  produce  of 
the  land,  cotton  and  cocoa,  is  divided  equally  between 
the  proprietress  and  the  tenants.  The  people  used 
formerly  to  give  their  share  of  the  cotton  to  Miss 
Jane-Rose  to  dispose  of  for  them,  but  they  now  sell  it 
direct  to  the  British  government  at  better  prices.  The 
fisherman  reserve  for  the  proprietress  a  portion  of 
each  day's  catch. 

The  people  are  essentially  French  and  no  religion 
other  than  the  Roman  Catholic  is  tolerated.  Miss 
Jane-Rose  officiates  as  priestess  and  occasionally  a 
priest  from  Carriacou  comes  to  celebrate  mass.  She 
also  acts  the  part  of  mediator  or  judge  in  many  dis- 
putes where  no  grave  issues  are  involved.  The  peo- 
ple, generally,  are  a  law-abiding  lot  and  in  eight  years 
only  two  cases  of  importance  have  come  within  the 
jurisdiction  of  Whitfield  Smith  at  Carriacou. 

The  little  church,  close  to  her  house,  was  opened 
for  our  benefit,  and  it  was  with  great  pride  that  she 
exhibited  the  altar  and  the  painted  inscriptions  on  the 
walls.  The  building  was  nothing  better  than  a  wooden 
shed,  an  ant-eaten  sanctuary  into  which  small  birds 
fly  to  nest  through  the  holes  in  the  roof.  As  we  talked, 
a  pathetic  figure  stole  in  to  have  a  glimpse  of  "de  mon 
in  de  boat,"  and  to  furtively  touch  his  clothes  to  feel 


100  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

of  what  strange  stuff  they  might  be  made.  She  was  a 
little  woman  of  sixty  or  more,  not  shrunken,  for  that 
would  imply  wrinkles,  but  lessened  in  size,  as  though 
she  were  slowly  evaporating.  Her  face  was  still  the 
face  of  youth,  the  sepia  etching  of  a  French  beauty  of 
the  old  days,  the  skin  dark,  somewhat  transparent  and 
of  fine  texture.  It  was  a  face  beautiful  and  shapely  in 
every  line,  the  only  negro  feature  that  I  could  detect 
being  the  darkness  of  her  skin.  She  seemed  like  some 
incautious  mortal,  under  the  spell  of  a  Circe,  with  an 
appeal  in  her  eyes  to  a  deliverer  who  would  never  come. 

With  a  parting  gift  of  cassava  cakes,  taken  from 
their  drying  place  on  the  roof  of  one  of  the  near-by 
huts,  we  scrambled  down  to  the  beach  where  we 
undressed  and  swam  to  the  sloop,  holding  our  clothes 
clear  of  the  water.  The  wind  had  dropped  with  the 
setting  of  the  sun,  and  we  drifted  back  to  Union  in 
the  moonlight  before  a  soft,  balmy  air  that  carried 
no  chill. 

The  next  day  I  was  more  successful  in  leaving  the 
island.  Walker  insisted  upon  accompanying  me  in  his 
sloop  to  pilot  me,  as  he  said,  through  the  intricate 
reefs.  It  afterwards  turned  out  that  he  doubted  the 
ability  of  the  Yakaboo  to  make  the  passage  to  Bequia 
in  safety.  After  three  hours  of  cautious  sailing,  we 
ran  ashore  on  Cannouan  to  cook  our  luncheon.  Here 
it  was  that  Walker  taught  me  a  new  trick.  The  natives 
of  the  island  had  come  down  to  have  a  close  scrutiny  of 
the  strange  man  who  was  sailing  about  the  islands  in 
"de  canoe,"  and  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
their  presence  was  far  more  picturesque  than  desirable. 
They  handled  everything,  examined  my  dishes,  and  one 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  10,1 

of  them  even  started  to  open  my  food  bags.  3 .  T  swore 
at  them,  but  they  did  not  seem  to  undtrsta  id.  To  niy, 
"What  the  devil  shall  I  do  with  these  people  ?" 

"Oh,  I'll  fix  'em,"  said  Walker,  at  which  he  swept 
one  arm  toward  them  and  then  pointing  at  me  yelled: 

"Get  out!  or  *de  mon'  will  put  a  curse  on  you." 

The  words  were  magic.  Profanity  had  made  no 
impression,  but  the  putting  on  of  a  curse  by  one  who 
bordered  on  the  supernatural — that  was  something 
different!  With  one  bound  they  cleared  the  place  of 
our  nooning  and  with  another  they  were  in  the  brush 
where  for  the  rest  of  our  stay  I  could  see  the  tops  of 
their  woolly  heads  and  the  gleam  of  white  eyeballs, 
curiosity  and  fear  holding  them  balanced,  as  it  were, 
at  the  nearest  point  of  safety.  After  that,  whenever 
I  was  troubled  by  curious  natives  I  repeated  Walker's 
magic  formula,  "Get  out!    Or  Til  put  a  curse  on  you." 

Six  o'clock  found  the  canoe  and  the  sloop  three  and 
one  half  miles  from  West  Cape  on  Bequia  with  a 
strong  lee  tide,  that  is,  off  shore,  and  the  wind 
dropping.  The  sloop,  being  heavier  with  her  rock 
ballast  and  her  crew  of  three,  had  outsailed  the  much 
lighter  canoe  in  the  choppy  seas  and  was  leading  some- 
what to  windward.  Just  as  the  sun  was  setting,  I  saw 
a  number  of  fins  coming  down  towards  the  canoe.  I 
now  got  the  greatest  fright  of  my  whole  cruise.  All 
my  past  experience  as  to  the  cowardice  of  the  shark 
vanished,  leaving  a  void  into  which  fear  rushed  as  into 
a  vacuum.  My  imaginative  brain  could  only  attach 
those  fins  to  a  school  of  huge  sharks,  some  of  them 
probably  larger  than  the  canoe  I  was  sailing  in. 

Of  what  avail  would  my  seven  inches  of  freeboard  be 


.102  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

^to  one.  of  those  fellows  should  he  choose  to  slide  his 
ugly  head  ever  the  gunwale?  Of  what  avail  my  arma- 
ment of  two  rifles,  one  revolver,  and  one  axe?  At  a 
maximum  I  had  a  bullet  each  for  nineteen  sharks  and 
perhaps  my  trusty  axe  would  finish  up  one  or  two,  but 
here  was  a  horde  descending  upon  me.  I  remembered 
how  sharks  were  in  the  habit  of  jumping  clear  of  the 
water  and  tearing  out  the  blubber  on  a  whale's  back; 
at  any  rate,  I  thought,  I  would  finish  one  or  two  of 
them  before  they  dragged  my  mangled  form  into  the 
sea  and  so  forth — oh,  happy  moment! 

There  was  not  the  slightest  use  in  altering  my  course 
to  avoid  them,  so  I  held  on  and  the  next  moment  was 
in  the  midst  of  a  school  of  snorting,  playing  porpoises. 
I  could  have  jumped  overboard  and  hugged  them.  I 
swore  that  the  fun  of  graining  them  from  the  swaying 
footropes  would  never  again  be  mine,  nor  would  I 
even  use  their  oil  on  my  boots.  To  me  the  porpoise  is 
henceforth  a  sacred  animal.  There  were  hundreds  of 
them  in  the  school  and  among  them  were  blackfish  of 
a  considerable  size.  Playful  and  curious,  they  would 
make  a  dash  with  torpedo  speed  and  then  dive  under 
the  canoe  or  swerve  around  the  ends,  fascinating  me 
with  their  wonderful  grace  and  ease.  One  of  them, 
making  a  slight  miscalculation,  bumped  the  centerboard 
and  nearly  upset  the  canoe.  This  made  me  think  it 
safer  to  run  off  the  wind  and  travel  with  them,  present- 
ing the  edge  of  the  board  rather  than  the  side.  And 
so  I  kept  them  company  till  they  had  had  their  fun  and 
resumed  their  travels. 

Some  of  them  would  jump  clear  of  the  water  and 
with  a  half  turn  in  the  air  would  land  on  their  backs 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  103 

with  a  resounding  splash.  It  was  their  way  of  scratch- 
ing their  backs  and  I  could  almost  see  a  grin  of  delight 
on  their  mouths.  As  they  left  me,  twilight  gave  way, 
and  I  was  alone  in  the  starry  night.  Walker  in  the 
sloop  was  somewhere  to  windward — out  of  sight.  I 
had  taken  in  sail  and  was  now  rowing,  using  for  a 
guide  Orion's  Belt,  suspended  above  the  swaying  top 
of  the  stubby  little  mizzen  mast.  As  the  moon  rose,  I 
could  read  the  compass. 

After  an  hour  or  so  I  must  have  fallen  asleep,  still 
rowing,  for  I  awoke  at  nine  o'clock,  the  oars  still  in 
my  hands,  to  find  that  I  was  off  my  course  and  about 
a  mile  from  West  Cape,  which  now  loomed  up  black 
in  the  distance.  The  current  had  swung  the  canoe 
around  little  by  little  as  I  had  ceased  to  take  notice  of 
the  compass  till  I  was  rowing  northward  instead  of 
nearly  due  east.  In  another  hour  I  was  headed  into 
Admiralty  Bay  in  the  lee  of  Bequia. 

By  that  same  law  of  compensation  which  I  have 
already  mentioned,  I  was  now  rewarded  for  a  hard 
day  of  travel  at  sea.  I  shall  never  forget  the  beauty 
of  that  night  as  I  slipped  into  the  easier  waters  under 
the  long  arm  of  West  Cape,  which  reaches  from 
Bequia  three  miles  out  to  sea.  The  moon  was  high 
in  a  brilliant  sky  across  which  the  trade  clouds  rolled 
like  a  curtain,  on  their  never-ending  march  to  the 
Spanish  Main.  The  Cape  stood  lofty  and  dark  and 
bold  and  I  could  see  the  surf  rise  from  the  rocks,  high 
into  the  air,  white  and  forbidding  like  a  living  thing. 

As  the  moon  swung  over  its  zenith,  I  could  make 
out  the  little  huts  and  trees  on  the  island  as  in  daytime 
and  finally  I  saw  a  small  fire  on  the  beach,  near  where  I 


104  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

judged  the  village  to  be.  It  was  half-past  eleven  when 
I  rowed  up  to  the  jetty,  which  stood  out  into  the  water 
like  an  immense  centipede.  The  squeak  of  my  row- 
locks betrayed  my  presence  and  the  natives,  who  were 
lying  on  the  beach  by  the  fire,  rushed  out  onto  the 
jetty.  They  had  been  waiting  for  me.  Then  came  the 
usual  babble  of  voices  and  torrent  of  questions. 

Their  curiosity  was  unappeased  for  I  tied  my 
painter  to  a  sloop  at  anchor  near  the  jetty  and  even 
as  I  was  preparing  to  turn  in,  a  native  policeman  drove 
the  crowd  inshore. 

The  Yakaboo  was  indeed  a  real  "live-aboard-ship" 
and  had  my  stove  been  in  commission  I  could  have 
cooked  my  supper  in  the  cockpit.  In  fact,  I  could  have 
lived  aboard  indefinitely  as  long  as  food  and  water 
held  out,  for  I  could%  rig  up  my  tent  over  the  cockpit 
in  the  event  of  rain.  Cold  meat,  crackers,  and  cool 
fresh  water  made  an  excellent  repast  for  a  starved 
and  healthy  stomach. 

One  who  has  never  done  this  sort  of  thing  can 
scarcely  appreciate  my  sense  of  complete  luxury  as  I 
lay  in  my  blankets  in  the  snug  cockpit  of  the  Yakaboo, 
And  always  at  the  mention  of  the  Yakaboo  I  think  of 
her  as  a  thing  of  life.  There  was  scarcely  any  motion 
in  the  quiet  waters  of  the  bay,  yet  I  could  feel  her 
buoying  me  up,  as  though  I  were  resting  on  a  small 
cloud  suspended  in  mid-air,  a  Mahomet's  coffin.  Then 
as  I  rolled  over  to  lie  on  my  side  she  would  give  grace- 
fully— she  was  always  there  under  me,  holding  me  up 
out  of  the  sea — my  water  cradle.  A  great  contentment 
came   over  me   as  I   lay  contemplating  the  magical 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  105 

harbour  into  which  I  had  found  my  way  like  a  tired 
gull. 

I  had  hardly  fallen  asleep  when  Walker  sailed  along- 
side and  awoke  me.  He  had  lost  track  of  me  in  the 
darkness  and  had  been  looking  for  me  till  the  moon- 
light had  shown  the  Yakaboo  crawling  into  Admiralty 
harbour.  He  sent  his  two  men  ashore  and  I  passed 
him  some  food  and  one  of  my  blankets.  He  left  again 
at  five  in  the  morning  with  some  food  which  I  insisted 
upon  his  taking  and  a  better  opinion  of  the  ability  of 
the  Yakaboo.  There  are  few  men  I  should  care  to 
have  with  me  in  the  open.    Walker  is  one  of  them. 

With  the  sun  came  the  incessant  babble  of  an  increas- 
ing crowd  on  shore.  Sleep  was  impossible  and  I  landed 
at  nine  o'clock.  Before  I  had  turned  in  the  night 
before,  I  asked  the  crowd  whether  u01d  Bill"  Wallace, 
the  Nestor  of  whalemen  in  the  Grenadines,  was  still 
alive.  Yes,  they  told  me,  he  lived  in  the  hills  beyond 
'Tony  Gibbon's." 

"Old  Bill"  came  down  as  I  was  cooking  breakfast 
over  a  coal-pot  in  the  parsonage.  (When  I  end  this 
life  I  shall  go  with  an  infinite  debt  to  lighthouse  keep- 
ers, Scotchmen  and  English  parsons.)  I  gave  him  a 
letter  I  had  carried  from  Boston  in  my  portfolio.  It 
was  from  a  shipmate  of  his  son,  who  had  been  lost  at 
sea.  In  it  were  two  photographs  of  young  Wallace  on 
the  next  but  last  of  his  voyages,  showing  his  active 
young  figure  at  the  "mincing"  board  and  in  the  cross 
trees.  As  the  old  man  opened  the  letter  a  look  of  sur- 
prise came  over  him  and  he  held  the  photographs  in 
trembling  hands.  It  was  like  a  message  from  the  dead, 
almost,  to  see  his  son  at  work  on  the  whaler,  and  a 


106  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

far-off  look  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  stood  there, 
brought  back  so  suddenly  to  the  vague  tragedy  that  had 
been  the  hardest  burden  of  a  hard  life. 

"I  am  old  and  broken  down  now,  and  not  much  use," 
he  said,  "but  as  long  as  these  old  hands  can  work  I'll 
keep  on  going  till  I  slip  my  moorings  and  get  off  on  my 
last  cruise."  Hard  work  and  a  rough  life  had  been 
the  lot  of  this  relic  of  a  fast  vanishing  type  of  deep- 
water  sailor.  In  that  romance  age  of  fifteen  he  had 
spewed  the  silver  spoon  from  his  mouth  and  left  it 
on  the  hearth  of  his  Scotland  home  to  taste  his  first 
sting  of  bitterness  under  the  care  of  a  Yankee  skipper. 

He  finally  drifted  to  Bequia  with  his  earnings  and 
bought  a  large  sugar  plantation.  But  the  seafaring 
man  rarely  prospers  on  land.  The  failure  of  sugar 
cane  in  the  islands,  followed  by  a  disastrous  hurricane, 
brought  an  end  to  his  few  years  of  ease,  and  he  had  to 
turn  to  the  humpbacking  that  he  had  taught  the 
natives,  "jumbie  crabs,"  he  called  them.  Now,  too  old 
to  go  whaling,  he  is  rusting  away  like  the  ships  he  used 
to  sail,  waiting  to  aslip  his  moorings." 

In  the  afternoon,  I  climbed  the  hill  to  his  house, 
rebuilt  in  a  corner  of  the  ruins  of  his  former  home,  as 
if  backed  off  in  a  corner  by  fate.  There  I  met  his 
blue-eyed  little  wife  and  drank  with  them  the  bitter 
tea  that  had  simmered  on  the  coals  since  morning.  It 
was  many  years  since  he  had  talked  to  one  from  the 
States  and  as  the  afternoon  grew  old  his  enthusiasm 
over  the  adventures  of  his  life  rose  to  the  fitting  climax 
of  a  hurricane  off  Delos  in  Africa. 

The  rickety  chair  would  no  longer  hold  him  and  he 
stood  in  the  doorway,  dark  against  the  levelled  rays  of 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  107 

the  setting  sun,  a  fiery,  Quixotic  figure,  brandishing  his 
cutlass  to  illustrate  how,  as  a  mate  on  the  almost 
doomed  ship,  he  had  stood  years  ago  in  that  tense 
moment  with  uplifted  axe  ready  to  cut  the  weather 
shrouds.  She  was  "six  points  higher  than  Jordan," 
he  had  thought,  as  she  lay  with  her  lee  rail  under  water, 
not  a  rag  up,  held  by  the  force  of  the  wind  against  her 
spars.  Then — "be  th'  powers  o'  Malkenny's  cat," 
she  had  righted  herself  and  the  ship  was  saved  without 
losing  a  stick.  I  can  feel  his  enthusiasm  now  and  I 
wonder  if,  in  the  eternal  fitness  of  things,  the  good 
saint  will  promote  him  to  captaincy  on  the  ghost  of 
that  ship  on  the  seas  of  the  world  to  come. 

There  was  a  pathetic  touch  in  his  farewell  to  me, 
for  I  had  brought  back  to  him  the  sweet  memories  of  a 
gallant  son.  I  left  him  still  standing  in  the  doorway, 
the  cutlass  hanging  forgotten  from  one  arm,  the  other 
around  the  shoulder  of  his  mild  little  wife. 

One  hears  a  great  deal  of  the  tropical  sunset,  but 
to  me  there  is  nothing  to  compare  with  the  moon- 
light of  these  islands,  and  it  was  a  continual  source  of 
pleasure  to  wander  about  in  the  hills  in  the  light  of  the 
full  moon.  There  is  a  colour  effect  that  I  have  found 
in  no  other  place.  The  blue  sky  as  in  daytime,  but  soft- 
ened, with  the  motion  of  the  large,  white,  fleecy  clouds 
in  contrast.  The  sea  a  darker  blue  with  the  pattern 
of  the  coral  reefs  showing  up  yellow  and  brown.  The 
island  itself  a  subdued  blue  framed  in  the  thin  line 
of  white  foam  on  the  rocks.  Distance  was  here  and  as 
I  stood  high  above  the  bay  I  could  see  the  islands  I 
had  left,  Cannouan,  Mayero,  Union,  high  and  dark, 
and  even  Carriacou,  thirty  miles  away. 


108  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

On  my  way  down  to  the  bay,  I  passed  a  group  of 
little  native  huts,  where  a  more  or  less  heated  discussion 
was  in  progress. 

"He  no  sail  in  de  da' — he  floy  in  de  noight!  You 
tink  dat  li'le  boat  go  in  de  water?  Oh,  my!"  and  I 
realised  that  I  was  the  topic  of  conversation.  As 
I  neared  them,  one  said,  "O  Lard,  he  come  now." 

I  now  understood  why  I  had  been  so  quickly  discov- 
ered when  I  rowed  into  the  harbour  the  night  before. 
One  of  the  natives,  with  a  powerful  ship's  telescope 
"obtained"  from  some  Yankee  whaler,  had  picked 
up  my  queer  rig,  late  in  the  afternoon,  as  I  was 
approaching  Bequia  and  had  seen  my  sails  go  down 
shortly  after  sunset.  They  knew  that  the  wind  was 
dropping  and  they  believed  that  I  had  spread  out  my 
sails  parallel  to  the  water  and  flown.  In  fact,  the 
common  belief  in  Bequia  was  that  the  sailing  was  only 
a  bluff  and  that  I  really  covered  my  distances  by  flying 
at  night. 

So  they  had  built  a  bonfire  and  were  waiting  for 
me  on  the  beach,  where  they  knew  I  would  land.  Sure 
enough,  I  did  land  there,  but  before  they  had  had  a 
chance  to  see  me  fly,  I  had  folded  the  wings  of  the 
Yakaboo  and  was  rowing.  They  could  not  understand 
how  such  a  small  boat  could  live  in  their  seas.  The 
cut  of  the  sails  suggested  wings  and  the  natural  deduc- 
tion was,  "He  no  sail,  he  floy." 

I  was  a  man  apart  and  I  found  out  later  that  the 
natives  regarded  me  with  a  great  deal  of  awe  and 
thought  that  I  carried  some  sort  of  imp  or  fetish  with 
me  in  the  canoe.  Perhaps  I  did.  Was  there  not  a 
gru-gru  nut  the  postmaster  at  Goyave  had  given  me, 


iJt4oLl 

"old  bill"  and  the  skipper  of  the  "yakaboo." 


CARRIACOU— MAYERO— BEQUIA  109 

and  how  about  my  little  dead  mascot?  Except  for 
the  more  intelligent  men,  they  were  afraid  of  me,  but 
curiosity  would  get  the  better  of  their  fear  and  as  I 
talked  to  them  I  would  now  and  then  feel  the  furtive 
fingers  of  some  of  the  bolder  ones  touching  my  clothes 
as  one  would  a  priest's  robe. 

It  was  one  afternoon,  while  I  was  visiting  a  "try- 
works"  on  the  south  shore,  where  they  were  boiling 
oil  from  my  friend  the  porpoise,  that  I  espied  a  little 
boat  with  a  peculiar  rig  coming  down  from  the  East. 
The  natives  confirmed  my  guess,  it  was  a  Carib  canoe. 
By  a  lucky  chance  the  canoe  beached  almost  at  my  feet. 
There  were  four  Indians  in  her  and  I  immediately 
questioned  them  as  to  the  settlement  at  Sandy  Point, 
on  the  north  end  of  Saint  Vincent.  Yes,  they  were 
from  the  Carib  Country  and  would  be  glad  to  have 
me  come  up  and  live  with  them  as  long  as  I  wished. 
What  a  joy  it  was  to  see  the  lighter  colour  of  their 
skins,  their  straight  black  hair,  and  thin  lips.  They 
reminded  me  of  the  Japanese  and  my  eye  did  not  miss 
the  ease  with  which  they  carried  themselves  and 
handled  their  canoe. 

The  next  morning  I  said,  "Yakaboo,"  to  the  Grena- 
dines and  laid  my  course  for  Saint  Vincent  and  the 
Carib  Country. 


CHAPTER  V 

CLIMBING  THE  SOUFRIERE  OF  SAINT  VINCENT 

MY  entry  into  the  port  of  Kingstown  was  spectacu- 
lar, but  hardly  to  my  liking.  The  mail  sloop 
from  Bequia  had  spread  the  news  of  my  coming  and 
as  I  neared  the  shore,  I  saw  that  the  jetty  and  the 
beach  were  black  with  black  people.  A  rain  squall 
came  down  from  the  hills,  but  it  did  not  seem  to 
dampen  the  interest  of  the  people  nor  dim  the  eye  of 
my  camera.  I  had  scarcely  stepped  out  of  the  canoe 
when  the  crowd  rushed  into  the  water,  lifted  her  on 
their  shoulders  and  she  continued  on  her  way  through 
a  sea  of  bobbing  heads.  Direct  was  her  course  for 
the  gate  of  the  building  which  contains  the  govern- 
ment offices  and  she  at  last  came  to  rest  in  a  shaded 
corner  of  the  patio,  where  the  police  are  drilled.  As 
I  followed  in  her  wake,  I  said  to  myself,  "She  may 
be  without  rudder  and  without  skipper  and  still  find 
her  way  to  a  quiet  berth."  We  were  in  a  land-locked 
harbour,  the  crowd  as  a  sea  outside,  beating  against 
the  walls. 

My  own  procedure  was  as  strange  a  performance  as 
that  of  the  Yakaboo.  Among  the  officials  in  the  patio 
was  one  who  pushed  himself  forward  and  gave  me 
a  package  of  mail.  He  was  His  Majesty's  Postmaster, 
Mr.  Monplaisir. 

110 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  111 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?"  asked  H.  M. 
P.  M.,  addressing  me  by  my  first  name. 

"Yes,  Monty," — he  was  pleased  at  this — "you  can 
lead  me  to  a  fresh-water  shower." 

"Come  along,  then,"  and  the  sergeant  opened  the 
gate  for  us.  As  we  walked  through  the  streets,  the 
crowd  streaked  out  behind  us  like  the  tail  of  a  comet. 
We  soon  gained  the  house  of  one  Mr.  Crichton,  where 
a  number  of  government  clerks  lived  as  in  a  boarding 
house  and  where  a  transient  guest  might  also  find 
lodging.  There  happened  that  time  to  be  such  a  guest, 
by  name,  Dr.  Theodorini — optometrist.  His  mission 
in  life,  it  seemed,  was  to  relieve  the  eye  strain  of  suffer- 
ing natives  throughout  the  West  Indies.  His  most 
popular  prescriptions  called  for  gold-rimmed  glasses — 
not  always  a  necessity,  but  undeniably  a  distinct  social 
asset.    We  became  good  friends. 

My  comet's  tail,  like  any  well  behaved  appendage, 
tried  to  follow  me  into  Mr.  Crichton's  house  but  the 
landlord  was  too  quick  for  it  and,  as  I  stepped  over  the 
threshold,  he  bounded  against  the  flimsy  door,  thus 
performing  a  very  adroit  piece  of  astronomic  surgery. 
Divested  of  my  tail,  I  was  led  to  the  bath,  which 
proved  to  be  a  small  separate  building  erected  over 
a  spacious  tank  with  sides  waist  high.  Over  the  center 
of  the  tank  drooped  a  nozzle  with  a  cord  hanging 
down  beside  it.  What  an  excellent  chance  to  wash  the 
sea  water  out  of  my  clothes!  I  pulled  the  cord  and 
stood  under  the  shower.  Monty  handed  me  a  cigar- 
ette which  I  puffed  under  my  hat  brim. 

In  the  meantime,  Dr.  Theodorini,  whom  I  had  not 
yet  met,  began  throwing  pennies  to  the  baffled  crowd 


112  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

from  the  second  story  window.  It  must  have  been  a 
queer  sight  could  one  have  viewed  it  in  section.  The 
swearing  of  the  landlord,  accompanied  by  the  orches- 
tration of  the  voices  outside  and  the  staccato  "Hur- 
rah's" of  Theodorini  reminded  me  in  a  silly  way  of 
Tschaikowsky's  1812  overture. 

Having  washed  my  clothes,  I  bathed  au  naturel  and 
then  found  to  my  chagrin  that  I  had  brought  nothing 
with  me  from  the  canoe.  Through  the  partly  opened 
door  I  ordered  one  of  the  servants  to  go  to  my  canoe 
and  bring  the  little  yellow  bag  which  contained  my 
spare  wardrobe.  Dried  and  unsalted,  I  emerged  from 
the  bath  to  sit  down  to  a  West  Indian  breakfast  at 
the  table  of  mine  host. 

My  days  in  Kingstown  were  mainly  occupied  in 
developing  the  more  recent  exposures  I  had  made  in 
the  Grenadines  and  in  rewashing  the  films  I  had  de- 
veloped en  route.  In  the  tropics  I  found  that  as  soon 
as  I  had  opened  a  tin  of  films,  it  was  imperative  to 
expose  and  develop  them  as  quickly  as  possible  in  order 
to  avoid  fogging  in  the  excessive  heat.  Whenever  I 
came  to  a  place  like  Kingstown  where  ice  was  ob- 
tainable ,this  was  a  simple  matter,  for  by  the  use  of 
the  film  tank  and  the  changing  bag  I  was  independent 
of  a  dark  room. 

On  the  beaches,  however,  my  chief  difficulty  was 
in  lowering  the  temperature  of  the  water,  which  usu- 
ally stood  at  8o°  F. — the  "frilling"  point  for  films. 
Having  mixed  the  developing  solution  in  the  tank,  I 
would  close  it  and  wrap  it  carefully  in  a  wet  flannel 
shirt.  Then  with  a  line  tied  to  it — my  mizzen  hal- 
yard served  admirably  with  its  three-inch  mast  ring 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  113 

to  hold  in  my  hand — I  would  step  clear  of  my  tent  and 
whirl  the  tank  around  my  head  at  the  end  of  the  line. 
In  this  way  I  could  bring  down  the  temperature  of 
the  liquid  to  about  75  ° — a  safe  temperature  for  de- 
veloping. Often  I  did  not  have  enough  fresh  water 
for  washing  the  developed  films  and  would  have  to  use 
sea  water — which  meant  a  thorough  rewashing  such 
as  at  Kingstown.  Even  under  these  adverse  condi- 
tions my  failures  were  only  ten  per  cent  of  the  total. 

Ice,  in  these  parts,  is  used  mainly  in  the  making  of 
swizzles,  as  the  West  Indian  cocktails  are  called,  and 
when,  as  at  Crichton's,  I  would  send  for  enough  ice 
to  chill  gallons  of  swizzles  and  withdraw  silently  to 
my  room  after  dinner,  another  topic  would  be  added 
in  the  speculation  which  summed  me  up  as  "queer 
chap  that." 

On  the  22nd  of  March,  I  sailed  out  of  the  road- 
stead of  Kingstown  before  a  stiff  breeze  which  the 
trade  sent  around  the  southern  hills  like  a  helping 
hand.  It  was  only  natural  that  the  wind  should  be- 
come contrary  off  Old  Woman  Point  where  it  hauled 
around  to  the  North.  Then  it  changed  its  mind, 
crawled  up  and  down  the  mast  a  couple  of  times,  and 
died  out  in  a  hot  gasp. 

The  shift  from  sails  to  oars  in  the  Yakaboo  was 
quickly  made.  With  a  tug  and  a  turn  the  mizzen  was 
hauled  taut  and  made  fast.  I  worked  my  lines  on 
"Butler"  cleats,  a  combination  of  hook  and  jam  cleat 
that  was  quick  and  effective. 

A  semicircular  motion  of  the  hand  cleared  the  line, 
the  same  motion  reversed  made  the  line  fast  again. 
My  mizzen  boom  amidships,  I  then  let  go  the  main 


114  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

halyard  and  the  sail  dropped  into  its  lazy  jacks  like 
a  loose-jointed  fan.  With  three  turns  of  the  hal- 
yard the  furled  sail  was  secured  and  by  making  the 
line  fast  to  its  cleat  on  the  port  coaming  the  sail  was 
kept  to  one  side,  clear  of  the  cockpit.  The  lazy 
jacks  held  the  sail  up  so  that  the  oar  could  pass  under 
it  without  interference.  By  letting  go  the  mizzen 
halyard,  it  likewise  fell  into  its  lazy  jacks.  To  furl 
the  mizzen,  I  pulled  taut  on  a  down-haul,  the  standing 
parts  of  which  passed  around  each  side  of  the  sail  and 
over  the  gaff.  Thus  the  gaff  was  drawn  down  close  to 
the  boom,  the  line  snugly  holding  the  intermediate 
sail  and  battens. 

These  five  operations  were  done  in  the  time  it  takes 
a  man  to  remove  a  case  from  his  pocket  and  light  a 
cigarette.  Then  I  loosed  the  light  seven-foot  oars 
tied  in  the  cockpit  with  their  blades  under  the  forward 
decking.  With  a  shove  my  blanket  bag  was  in  the 
forward  end  of  the  cockpit,  where  it  served  as  my 
seat  when  rowing.  The  rowlock  chocks  with  their 
sockets  and  rowlocks  were  quickly  secured  in  their 
places  on  deck,  by  means  of  winged  nuts  that  screwed 
into  flush  sockets.  By  the  time  the  man  with  the  cig- 
arette has  taken  three  puffs  the  Yakaboo  is  off  at  a 
three  and  a  half  knot  gait. 

So  far,  I  had  done  but  little  rowing  in  smooth  waters 
and  the  sense  of  stealing  quietly  along  the  lee  coast 
to  enjoy  its  intimacy  was  a  new  pleasure.  All  these 
islands,  especially  the  lower  ones,  have  more  or  less 
the  same  formation — Grenada,  Saint  Vincent,  Saint 
Lucia,  and  Dominica.  This  formation  consists  of  a 
backbone  which  rises  to  a  height  of  from  two  to  three 


AS  I  NEARED  THE  SHORE  I  SAW  THAT  THE  JETTY   WAS  BLACK 
WITH    BLACK    PEOPLE." 


fiiti  i    rjJL        !li!i 


THE     USUAL    APPEARANCE    OF     THE     JETTY. 
FOR    THE    MARKET. 


^LOADING 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT   115 

thousand  feet  and  is  the  main  axis  of  the  island  with 
spurs  which  run  down  to  the  Atlantic  and  the  Carib- 
bean, east  and  west,  like  the  veins  of  a  leaf.  The 
coast  is  a  fascinating  succession  of  points,  bays,  cliffs, 
and  coves.  One  may  range  along  shore  and  find  a 
spot  to  suit  any  whim  one's  fancy  may  dictate. 

I  chanced  to  look  around — to  locate  my  position 
on  the  chart — when  I  found  that  I  was  rowing  into 
a  fleet  of  canoes  calmly  resting  on  the  heave  of  the 
sea  like  a  flock  of  ducks.  They  were  apparently  wait- 
ing for  me.  There  was  not  the  usual  babble  of  the 
native  and  if  I  had  not  turned  just  then  another  stroke 
or  two  would  have  shot  the  Yakaboo  into  their  friendly 
ambuscade.  The  canoes  were  filled  with  "Black  Ca- 
ribs"— hence  the  absence  of  the  babble — that  sub-race 
which  sprang  from  Bequia  nearly  two  and  a  half  cen- 
turies ago. 

In  1675,  a  slave  ship  from  the  West  Coast  of 
Africa  foundered  in  a  gale  on  the  shores  of  Bequia 
which  at  that  time  was  a  Carib  stronghold.  The 
negroes  were  good  water  people  and  as  the  ship  went 
down  they  swam  ashore,  men,  women,  and  children, 
where  they  were  well  received  by  the  Caribs.  What 
became  of  the  white  skipper  and  his  crew  one  does 
not  hear — they  were  presumably  murdered. 

The  Caribs  were  quick  to  realise  that  fortune  had 
sent  them  a  new  ally  in  these  negroes  whose  love  for 
the  white  man  was  at  a  low  ebb.  The  blacks  were 
adopted  by  the  Caribs  and  a  new  sub-race  was  formed. 
The  result  was  a  tribe  in  which  the  fighting  qualities 
of  both  races  were  distilled  to  a  double  strength  (an 
expression  which  comes  naturally  enough  when  one 


116  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

is  writing  in  a  rum  country).  These  Black  Caribs 
successfully  held  the  English  at  bay  for  a  number  of 
years.  Nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  before,  the 
Caribs  in  Grenada  had  been  completely  exterminated 
by  the  French  and  they  were  now  being  rapidly  driven 
out  of  Saint  Vincent  by  the  English. 

The  negro  blood  very  quickly  gained  ascendency, 
as  it  invariably  does,  and  as  far  as  I  could  ascertain 
the  traces  of  the  Carib  were  almost  completely  oblit- 
erated among  the  Black  Caribs  whom  I  saw.  The 
hair  is  one  of  the  most  obvious  indices  of  admixture, 
varying  from  the  close  curly  wool  of  the  pure  African 
through  diverse  shades  of  dark  tow  to  the  straight 
black  of  the  Indian.  Where  racial  colour  is  well  mixed, 
the  hair  is  often  like  the  frayed  end  of  a  hemp  rope. 

I  stopped  to  talk  with  them  and  they  begged  me  to 
come  ashore  to  see  their  village  of  which  they  v/ere 
evidently  proud.  It  is  called  Layou  and  lies  in  the 
bight  of  a  bay  by  the  same  name.  We  landed  on  a 
beach  furnace  of  hot  black  sand.  The  sand  reminded 
me  of  iron,  and  iron  reminded  me  of  tetanus.  This 
reminded  me  that  the  lockjaw  germ  is  not  a  rare 
animal  on  these  inhabited  beaches  so  I  put  on  my 
moccasins. 

As  I  have  implied  there  was  heat.  Not  alone  the 
stifling  heat  of  a  beach  where  the  still  air,  like  a  spongy 
mass,  seems  to  accumulate  caloric  units  but  also  the 
heat  of  a  vertical  tropic  sun,  pouring  down  like  rain. 
My  felt  hat,  stuffed  with  a  red  handkerchief,  made  a 
small  circle  of  shade  which  protected  my  neck  when 
I  held  my  head  up  but  left  the  tips  of  my  shoul- 
ders scorching.     My  forearms  hung  gorilla-like  from 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  117 

my  rolled  up  sleeves,  not  bare  but  covered  by  a  deep 
tan  from  which  sprang  a  forest  of  bleached  hairs — 
the  result  of  weather.  Heaven  preserve  me  from  a 
nooning  on  a  beach  like  that! 

The  village  consisted  of  a  single  row  of  one-room 
huts,  thatch-roofed  and  wattle-sided,  each  standing 
on  four  posts  as  if  to  hold  its  body  off  the  blistering 
sands.  The  people  conducted  me  along  this  row  of 
huts  on  stilts  in  exactly  the  way  a  provincial  will  take 
you  for  a  walk  down  the  main  street  of  his  town.  In- 
stead of  turning  into  the  drug  store,  we  fetched  up  by 
a  large  dugout  where  a  quantity  of  water-nuts  (jelly 
coconuts)  were  opened.    It  was  the  nectar  of  the  Gods. 

I  felt  like  an  explorer  on  the  coast  of  Africa  being 
entertained  by  the  people  of  a  friendly  tribe.  I  was 
touched  by  their  kindly  hospitality  and  shall  tell  you 
later  of  other  friendly  acts  by  these  coast  natives.  I 
do  not  believe  it  was  curiosity  alone  that  tempted  them 
to  beg  me  to  visit  their  village.  True,  they  crowded 
around  the  Yakaboo,  but  they  had  the  delicacy  not  to 
touch  it,  a  trait  which  usually  obtains  among  rural 
or  coastal  natives  whether  in  these  islands  or  civilisa- 
tion. They  seemed  deeply  interested  in  me  and  I  felt 
that  they  were  constantly  devouring  me  with  their  eyes. 
When  I  left  them,  they  filled  the  cockpit  of  the  Yaka- 
boo with  bananas  and  water-nuts  trimmed  ready  to 
open  at  a  slice  from  my  knife. 

As  I  rowed  out  into  the  bay,  I  nearly  ran  down  a 
diminutive  craft  sailing  across  my  bows.  There  was 
something  about  that  double  rig — the  Yakaboo  turned 
around  to  look  at  it  as  we  slid  by — and  sure  enough 
it  was  Yakaboo* s  miniature !    Not  far  off  a  small  grin- 


118  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

ning  boy  sat  on  a  small  bobbing  catamaran.  He  had 
seen  the  Yakaboo  in  Kingstown  and  had  made  a  small 
model  of  her — and  so  she  was  known  to  a  place  before 
she  herself  got  there.  I  left  a  shilling  on  the  deck  of 
the  Little  Yakaboo,  but  she  was  not  long  burdened 
with  her  precious  cargo. 

I  was  again  dreaming  along  shore.  Instead  of  fac- 
ing the  north,  as  I  had  while  sailing,  and  looking  at 
new  country,  I  was  now  looking  toward  the  south  and 
could  still  see  the  outlines  of  the  Grenadines  and  even 
distant  Grenada,  a  haunting  tongue  of  misty  blue  that 
faded  into  the  uncertain  southern  horizon.  The  idea 
seemed  to  possess  me  that  I  should  never  get  out  of 
sight  of  that  outline.  Now  I  saw  it  with  my  own 
eyes,  eaten  up  by  the  last  point  astern  that  had  de- 
voured the  Grenadines  one  by  one.  I  looked  around 
me  and  could  see  only  shores  that  were  new  to  me 
within  the  hour.  There  was  a  strange  joy  in  it.  I 
had  made  a  tangible  step  northward. 

The  sun  was  getting  low,  and  as  the  reflection  came 
from  the  broken  water,  miles  to  leeward,  I  felt  that 
I  was  travelling  along  the  edge  of  the  world.  No 
horizon  line  to  denote  finality,  the  sense  was  of  in- 
finity and  I  fancied  the  trade  wind,  which  blew  high 
overhead  and  met  the  sea  offshore,  a  siren  trying  to 
draw  me  away  from  land  to  the  unknown  of  ragged 
clouds.  It  was  the  effect  upon  my  mind  of  the  cease- 
less trade  and  the  westerly  current. 

With  the  setting  of  the  sun  my  row  came  to  an 
end.  I  was  in  the  little  bay  of  Chateau  Belaire,  at  the 
foot  of  the  Soufriere  volcano. 

There  was  a  fierce  joy  of  deception  in  my  heart  as 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  119 

I  sneaked  up  to  the  jetty  in  the  dusk  and  quietly  tied 
my  painter  to  the  landing  stage.  For  once  I  had 
cheated  the  native  of  the  small  spectacular  scene  of 
which  he  is  so  fond.  As  I  stepped  ashore,  dusk  gave 
way  to  a  darkness  relieved  only  by  the  glow  of  coal- 
pots  through  open  doors  and  the  smell  of  frying  fish. 
The  stars  were  not  yet  in  their  full  glow.  I  could 
move  about  in  the  murk  observing  but  not  observed. 
I  could  walk  among  the  fishermen  and  their  garboarded 
dugouts  without  the  ever-recurrent  "Look!  de  mon!" 
But  I  did  not  walk  about  for  long  and  for  two  very 
good  reasons.  A  lynx-eyed  policeman  who  had  dis- 
covered the  Yakaboo  was  one,  a  foot  full  of  sea  eggs 
was  the  other. 

One  morning  in  Kingstown,  I  went  for  a  sea  bath 
with  Monty.  It  was  then  I  learned  that  sharks  are 
not  the  greatest  pest  of  the  sea  for  while  incautiously 
poking  among  the  rocks  I  managed  to  fill  my  foot 
full  of  the  sharp  spines  of  a  sea  egg,  spines  as  brittle 
as  glass  that  break  off  in  the  flesh.  I  had  tried  to 
cut  them  out  with  my  scalpel,  but  that  only  tended  to 
increase  the  damage.  Monty  had  told  me  the  only 
thing  for  me  to  do  was  to  wait  till  the  points  worked 
out  of  their  own  accord. 

So  I  hobbled  back  to  the  jetty  to  take  possession 
of  my  canoe.  My  plan  was  to  leave  the  Yakaboo  at 
Chateau  Belaire  while  I  made  the  ascent  of  the  Sou- 
friere  and  while  I  visited  the  Caribs  on  the  windward 
side  where  the  surf  was  high  and  the  rocky  beaches 
more  friendly  to  the  thick  bottom  of  a  log  dugout  than 
a  quarter  inch  skin.  So  the  Yakaboo — she  was  becom- 
ing an  habitue  of  the  police  courts — was  unloaded  and 


120  ALONE  IX  THE  CARIBBEAN 

carried  to  the  station.  While  I  was  in  the  Carib 
country,  the  local  court  was  in  session  and  she  served 
as  a  bench  for  the  witnesses.  I  hope  that  her  honest 
spirit  permeated  upwards  through  those  witnesses  so 
that  in  the  day  of  judgment  they  may  say,  "Once, 
O  Peter,  did  I  speak  the  truth." 

Information  regarding  the  approach  and  the  ascent 
of  the  Soufriere  was  untrustworthy  and  difficult  to 
obtain.  Any  number  of  the  natives  seemed  to  have 
climbed  the  volcano,  but  none  of  them  could  tell  me 
how  to  do  it — a  little  subtlety  on  their  part  to  force 
me  to  hire  guides.  I  engaged  my  men,  brewed  a  cup 
of  tea,  chatted  with  the  police  sergeant,  and  turned 
in,  on  the  stiff  canvas  cot  in  the  rest-room,  with  a  sheet 
over  me.  I  now  know  how  a  corpse  feels  when  it  is 
laid  out. 

My  guides  awoke  me  at  five  in  the  morning,  I  cooked 
a  hasty  breakfast  and  was  with  them  in  their  boat 
half  an  hour  later.  There  were  two  of  them  and  as 
surly  as  any  raw  Swede  deck  hands  I  have  ever  had 
to  do  with.  For  an  hour  we  rowed  in  silence  and  then 
we  landed  at  the  mouth  of  the  Wallibu  Dry  River. 
With  some  of  these  natives,  although  you  may  have 
hired  them  at  their  own  price  to  serve  you,  the  feeling 
seems  to  be  not  to  serve  you  and  do  what  you  wish 
them  to  do  but  to  grudge  their  effort  on  your  behalf 
and  to  make  you  do  what  they  want  you  to  do.  It 
requires  continual  insistence  on  the  part  of  the  white 
man  to  have,  at  times,  the  simplest  services  performed 
— an  insistence  that  makes  one  nerve-weary  and  ir- 
ritable. 

As  soon  as  we  stepped  ashore,  I  sat  down  on  a  con- 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  121 

venient  rock  to  grease  and  bandage  my  sore  foot. 
They  seemed  to  have  forgotten  my  presence  entirely 
and  started  up  the  bed  of  the  river  without  even  look- 
ing around  to  see  whether  I  was  coming  or  not.  I  let 
them  walk  till  they  were  almost  out  of  hearing  and 
then  I  called  them  back.  When  they  came  to  me,  not 
without  some  little  show  of  temper,  I  told  them  in 
unmistakable  words  of  one  syllable  and  most  of  them 
connected  by  hyphens — that  we  had  as  yet  not  started 
to  climb  the  mountain  and  that  at  the  end  of  the  day's 
work  I  should  pay  them  for  being  guides  and  not  re- 
trievers to  nose  out  the  bush  ahead  of  me. 

We  proceeded  up  the  bed  of  the  Wallibu  River 
which  had  been  made  dry  in  the  last  eruption  (1902) 
by  a  deep  deposit  of  volcanic  rocks  and  dust  which 
had  forced  the  water  to  seek  another  channel.  As  we 
walked  between  the  canon-like  sides,  I  was  reminded 
of  our  own  Bad  Lands  and  for  the  first  time  I  felt  a 
bit  homesick.  These  islands  have  very  little  in  com- 
mon with  our  northern  country;  even  the  nature  of 
the  people  is  different.  It  seemed  queer  to  me  to  be 
walking  in  this  miniature  canon  with  a  couple  of  West 
Indian  natives  instead  of  riding  a  patient  pony  and 
exchanging  a  monosyllable  or  two  with  a  Westerner. 
I  longed  for  the  sight  of  a  few  bleached  cattle  bones 
and  perhaps  a  gopher  hole  or  a  friendly  rattlesnake. 

A  small  spur  broke  the  perpendicular  face  of  the 
northern  wall  and  here  we  climbed  to  the  upper  sur- 
face. We  were  now  in  bush,  most  of  which  was  a 
sort  of  cane  grass,  over  our  heads  in  height,  through 
which  we  followed  a  narrow  trail.  This  upper  sur- 
face on  which  we  now  travelled  was  in  reality  the 


122  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

lowest  slope  of  the  volcano,  a  gentle  incline  where 
the  catenary  curve  from  the  crater  melts  into  the 
horizontal  line  of  the  earth's  surface.  Soon  I  could 
see  over  the  top  of  the  grass  and  found  that  we  were 
following  the  ridge  of  a  spur  which  radiated  in  a  south- 
westerly direction  from  the  volcano.  The  ridge  itself 
was  not  one  continuous  curve  upward  but  festooned 
along  a  series  of  small  peaks  between  which  we  dropped 
down  into  the  bush  from  time  to  time.  The  vegeta- 
tion between  these  peaks  consisted  of  the  same  heavy 
cane  grass  we  had  passed  through  on  the  lower  slope. 

To  offset  the  lack  of  wind  in  these  valley-like  de- 
pressions the  grass  again  rose  above  our  heads,  keep- 
ing the  trail  well  shaded.  Thank  fortune,  the  dreaded 
fer-de-lance  does  not  exist  on  this  island.  At  about 
1,500  feet  the  vegetation  ceased  altogether  except  for 
a  few  stray  clumps  of  grass  and  the  greenish  fungus 
that  gave  the  ground  a  mouldy,  coppery  appearance. 
There  was  no  sign  of  the  flow  of  lava  on  this  side 
of  the  volcano,  merely  the  rocks  and  dust  which  had 
been  thrown  up  in  immense  quantities.  As  we  neared 
the  top  the  wind  blew  strongly  and  was  cold  with 
the  mist  torn  from  the  bellies  of  low-hanging  trade 
clouds.  I  was  fortunate  in  choosing  a  day  when  the 
crater  was  at  times  entirely  free  of  clouds,  for  only 
once  during  the  next  ten  days  did  I  see  the  top  again 
uncovered,  and  then  for  only  a  few  minutes. 

Contrary  to  my  wishes,  my  sullen  guides  had  again 
taken  the  bit  in  their  teeth  and  they  started  the  ascent 
at  a  brisk  pace  which  killed  them  before  we  were  half 
way  up  the  mountain.  My  sore  foot  demanded  a  steady 
ground  eating  pace  with  no  rests.    Up  till  this  time  they 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  123 

had  walked  a  considerable  space  ahead  of  me,  this  lead 
gradually  decreasing  as  they  tired.  I  could  lose  no 
time  and  dared  not  rest,  and  since  I  could  now  find  my 
way  perfectly  well  alone,  I  went  on  ahead  of  them.  As 
I  neared  the  top,  the  force  of  the  wind  became  more 
and  more  violent  till  I  found  it  impossible  to  stand 
up  and  I  finished  the  last  hundred  yards  on  my  hands 
and  knees. 

The  sight  that  greeted  my  eyes  as  I  peered  over 
the  rim  of  the  crater  literally  took  my  breath  away — 
that  is,  what  breath  the  wind  had  not  shoved  down  to 
my  stomach,  for  it  was  blowing  a  hurricane.  I  could 
not  at  once  quite  grasp  the  immensity  of  the  crater — 
for  its  proportions  are  so  perfect  that  I  would  not 
have  believed  the  distance  across  to  the  opposite  rim 
to  be  more  than  a  few  hundred  yards, — it  is  nearly 
a  mile.  A  thousand  feet  below  me — held  in  the  bowl 
of  the  crater — was  a  lake  almost  half  a  mile  in  diame- 
ter. During  the  last  splutters  of  the  eruption  of  1902 
the  ejecta  had  fallen  back  and  this  together  with  the 
subsiding  of  the  inner  slopes  of  the  crater  had  effectu- 
ally sealed  up  the  chimney  of  the  volcano. 

The  enormous  precipitation  which  is  nearly  always 
going  on,  due  to  the  striking  of  the  clouds  against  the 
crater,  has  collected  in  the  bottom  to  form  this  lake. 
I  hardly  knew  my  old  friend  the  trade  wind.  He 
rushed  up  the  windward  side  of  the  mountain,  boarded 
the  crater,  and  pounced  upon  the  lake  like  a  demon, 
spreading  squalls  in  all  directions.  The  surface  of  the 
water  looked  like  the  blushing  surface  of  a  yellow 
molten  metal.  Then  up  the  leeward  side  and  over  the 
rim  where  I  hung,  he  came  with  the  scream  of  a  thou- 


124  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

sand  furies.  It  was  as  though  the  spirits  of  the  un- 
funeraled  dead  had  come  back  to  haunt  the  place, 
day  and  night.  As  I  pulled  the  slide  out  of  my 
camera,  to  make  an  exposure,  the  wind  bent  it  nearly 
to  the  breaking  point.  My  hat  had  long  since  been  a 
tight  roll  in  my  pocket  and  I  lay,  head  on,  my  toes 
dug  into  the  slimy  surface  of  the  slope,  with  my  face 
buried  in  the  hood  of  my  camera  and  the  empty  case 
streaming  out  behind  me. 

I  spent  an  hour  in  scrambling  along  the  rim  and 
then  returned  to  the  guides  who  were  resting  some 
distance  below.  It  was  still  early  for  I  had  reached 
the  rim  at  8  130  after  a  climb  of  an  hour  and  thirty-two 
minutes.  My  barometer  registered  a  height  of  three 
thousand  and  twenty  feet  and  while  the  climb  had  been 
an  easy  one,  the  time  was  not  bad  for  a  foot  full  of  sea 
eggs. 

Higher  mountains  to  the  north  cut  off  all  possibility 
of  seeing  Saint  Lucia  or  Martinique,  but  as  I  looked  to 
the  south,  Grenada  showed  herself  and  the  Grenadines 
stretched  out  like  stepping  stones.  Below  lay  all  the 
vast  area  that  had  been  laid  waste  by  the  eruption. 
In  place  of  the  forests,  now  buried  deep  in  the  volcanic 
dust  and  scoria,  was  a  green  blanket  of  grass,  bush 
and  small  trees  that  would  belie  an  eruption  that  had 
obliterated  every  sign  of  green  nine  years  ago.  Scru- 
tiny with  the  field  glasses,  however,  showed  innumer- 
able canons  cut  through  laminae  of  volcanic  deposit 
with  thin  layers  of  soil  between.  I  could  almost  throw 
a  stone,  I  thought,  into  the  little  village  of  Chateau 
Belaire  four  miles  away,  that  by  some  miracle  had  es- 
caped destruction  by  a  few  hundred  yards.     But  my 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  125 

eyes  always  came  to  rest  on  the  Caribbean.  The  rays 
of  the  sun,  reflected  back  from  myriad  waves,  too 
distant  to  be  seen,  gave  the  sea  the  appearance  of  a 
vast  sheet  of  molten  metal  with  here  and  there  a  blush 
where  some  trade  cloud  trailed  its  shadow.  The 
clouds  dissolved  away  into  the  horizon,  sustaining  the 
feeling  that  there  was  nothing  beyond  but  infinity. 

The  sea  eggs  were  now  giving  sharp  notice  of  their 
presence  and  I  decided  to  rush  the  descent.  I  had  ex- 
changed but  few  words  with  my  guides.  If  there  had 
been  discontent  during  the  ascent,  there  was  more 
cause  for  it  now.  The  customary  grog  had  not  been 
forthcoming,  for  I  never  carry  spirits  on  an  expedi- 
tion like  this.  In  case  of  accident  or  exposure  there 
are  better  things  that  give  no  after  effects  of  let  down. 
My  guides  followed  me  in  my  downward  rush  with 
hardly  breath  enough  for  the  proper  amount  of  curs- 
ing which  the  occasion  demanded.  If  they  said  any- 
thing about  "de  dyam  Yonkee"  I  heard  it  not,  for  the 
trade  wind  would  have  carried  it  high  over  my  head. 
The  enjoyment  of  the  chase  kept  my  mind  off  the  pain 
in  my  foot.    I  reached  the  boat  in  forty  minutes. 

When  we  arrived  at  Chateau  Belaire  I  found  the 
Government  doctor  on  his  round  of  the  Leeward  coast. 
What  a  blessed  relief  it  would  be  to  have  him  inject 
some  cocaine  into  my  foot  and  then  cut  out  the  miser- 
able sea  egg  points.  But  he  was  as  effective  as  a  Chris- 
tian Scientist — I  should  have  to  wait  till  I  reached 
Saint  Lucia  where  there  was  an  excellent  hospital  in 
Castries  and  then  have  the  points  removed. 

Batiste  promised  better.  He  was  a  Yellow  Carib 
whom  I  had  found  in  Kingstown  and  whom  I  had  en- 


126  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

gaged  to  take  me  into  the  Carib  country  the  next  day. 
One  of  the  first  books  I  read  on  the  West  Indies  was 
by  Frederic  Ober  and  what  better  boatman  could  I 
have  than  the  son  of  his  old  Batiste  with  whom  he 
spent  months  on  the  slopes  of  the  volcano  camping  and 
hunting  the  Soufriere  bird.  "Wen  we  reach  up  Carib 
countrie  you  see  de  sea  egg  come  out." 

That  night  I  was  far  away  from  the  Caribbean  and 
I  dreamed  it  was  Saturday  morning  in  the  city.  Out- 
side I  could  hear  the  familiar  sound  of  the  steps  being 
scrubbed  with  rotten  stone.  I  could  feel  the  glare  of 
the  morning  sun  that  had  just  risen  over  the  roofs  of 
the  houses  and  was  shining  on  the  asphalted  street — 
"avenue"  it  was  called.  Then  came  the  toot-toot  of 
the  toy-balloon  man,  a  persistent  sound — too  persis- 
tent— and  I  finally  awoke  with  the  sun  in  my  eyes  and 
the  noise  of  Batiste's  conch  in  my  ears.  With  a  feeling 
that  my  youth  was  forever  a  thing  of  the  past  and  that 
I  had  assumed  some  overwhelming  burden,  I  bounded 
off  the  high  cot  and  landed  on  the  sea  egg  foot.  There 
had  been  no  sea  eggs  and  no  overwhelming  burden  in 
my  young  life  on  that  city  street.  For  the  sake  of  com- 
pany I  yelled  to  Batiste  to  come  and  have  some  tea 
with  me. 

At  last  we  were  off,  I  comfortably  seated  in  the  after 
end  of  the  canoe  with  my  family  of  yellow  bags  around 
and  under  me;  Batiste  behind  me,  steering  while  we 
were  rowed  by  two  Caribs  with  Christian  names.  The 
canoe  was  as  all  canoes  of  the  Lesser  Antilles — in  real- 
ity a  row-boat.  The  hull  proper  is  a  dug-out  made  of 
the  log  of  the  gommier  tree.  To  this  has  been  added 
a  sheer  streak  to  give  the  craft  more  freeboard.     In 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  127 

adding  the  sheer  streak  a  wedge  is  put  into  the  after 
end  so  that  above  water  the  boat  has  the  appearance  of 
having  a  dory  stern.  Oars  have  long  since  taken  the 
place  of  the  primitive  paddle  and  because  the  boat  is 
deep  and  narrow,  having  no  real  bilge  at  all,  she  is 
ballasted  with  stones.  They  are  ticklish  craft,  slow- 
moving  and  not  particularly  seaworthy. 

We  were  passing  the  point  between  Richmond  River 
and  the  Wallibu  Dry  River  where  I  had  begun  the  as- 
cent of  the  mountain  the  day  before  when  Batiste  said, 
uYou  see  w'ere  de  railin'  is?"  He  pointed  to  a  broad 
tongue  of  land  about  two  or  three  acres  in  extent  which 
for  some  reason  was  fenced  in.  "De  boat  walk  dere 
before  de  erupshun." 

Not  far  from  this  place  we  came  upon  a  curious  phe- 
nomenon which  Batiste  called  "de  spinning  tide."  In 
the  clay-coloured  water,  that  surrounded  it,  was  a  cir- 
cular area  of  blue,  sharply  defined,  about  thirty  feet  in 
diameter,  set  in  rotary  motion  by  the  coastwise  current. 
The  coolness  of  the  water  suggested  the  outflow  of 
some  submarine  spring,  probably  from  under  the  bed 
of  the  Dry  River. 

One  hears  but  little  of  the  eruption  of  the  Soufriere 
of  Saint  Vincent.  It  was  only  because  there  was  no 
large  town  near  the  crater  of  the  Soufriere  that  only 
sixteen  hundred  were  killed — a  mere  handful  compared 
with  the  twenty-five  thousand  in  the  French  island.  It 
seems  that  all  these  islands,  along  the  arc  from  Gre- 
nada to  Saba,  lie  along  a  seam  where  the  earth's  outer 
crust  is  thin.  Had  the  Soufriere  of  Saint  Lucia  (which 
lies  between  Saint  Vincent  and  Martinique)  not  been  in 
a  semi-active  state  there  would  in  all  probability  have 


128  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

been  a  triple  eruption.  I  found  that  Pelee  and  the 
Soufriere  of  Saint  Vincent  have  a  habit  of  celebrating 
together  at  intervals  of  approximately  ninety  years — 
1902,  1 8 12,  1 71 8,  and  there  is  some  mention  of  dis- 
turbances in  1625. 

Our  chief  interest  in  the  eruption  of  the  Soufriere  of 
Saint  Vincent  is  on  account  of  its  effect  upon  the  Yellow 
Carib.  This  island  was  the  last  stronghold  of  the 
Caribs  in  the  West  Indies  and  when  they  were  finally 
subdued  and  almost  exterminated  the  majority  of  the 
few  remaining  ones  were  transported  by  the  English  to 
the  island  of  Ruatan  near  Honduras.  The  rest  were 
eventually  pardoned  by  the  Government  and  were  al- 
lowed to  settle  in  various  places  in  the  island. 

There  was  for  a  time  a  considerable  admixture  of 
negro  blood,  but  little  by  little  this  was  eliminated  as 
the  Caribs  (Yellow)  drew  closer  and  closer  together 
among  themselves  and  began  to  settle  on  the  windward 
side  of  the  island  at  Sandy  Bay.  Here  the  Government 
gave  them  a  considerable  grant  of  land  which  became 
known  as  the  "Carib  Country."  The  spread  of  the 
Black  Carib  seems  to  have  stopped  shortly  after  their 
first  union  at  Bequia.  But  the  Black  Carib,  more  or 
less  a  race  apart,  was  more  agriculturally  inclined  than 
the  Yellow  Carib,  yet  possessed  the  Indian's  fondness 
for  the  sea. 

We  find  then,  before  the  eruption  of  1902,  the  Yel- 
low Carib  to  the  northeast  of  the  volcano,  living  more 
or  less  in  his  former  state  on  the  windward  side  of 
the  island;  the  Black  Carib  to  the  southwest,  along  the 
leeward  coast,  while  the  negro  was  more  or  less  evenly 
distributed  throughout  the  rest  of  the  island.     The 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  129 

eruption  of  the  Soufriere  differed  from  that  of  Pelee  in 
that  the  volcano  of  Saint  Vincent  laid  waste  a  consid- 
erable area  to  windward,  devastating  most  of  the  Carib 
Country  and  killing  a  goodly  number  of  the  Indians. 
This  seems  always  to  have  been  their  favourite  spot 
for  as  early  as  1720  Churchill  mentions  the  fact,  and 
says,  "The  other  side  (windward)  is  peopled  by  two 
or  three  thousand  Indians  who  trade  with  those  about 
the  river  Oronoque,  on  the  continent.  .  .  ." 

Immediately  after  the  eruption,  the  Government 
gave  the  Yellow  Caribs  land  among  the  Black  Caribs 
along  the  leeward  coast  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  erect 
small  houses  for  them — houses  that  were  far  better 
than  their  former  huts.  But  the  Yellow  Caribs  were 
too  much  Indian  to  settle  down  to  the  tame  life  of 
farming  among  the  Black  Caribs  and  little  by  little 
they  left  their  comfortable  English-made  homes  and 
began  to  steal  back  to  their  former  haunts ;  one  by  one 
at  first — then  in  numbers  till  there  was  a  well-defined 
migration.  When  I  visited  them — nine  years  after  the 
eruption — all  the  Yellow  Caribs  of  Saint  Vincent  were 
back  at  Sandy  Bay,  there  being  but  two  individuals  out- 
side the  island — one  in  Carriacou  and  the  other  in 
Grenada. 

At  one  place,  where  the  high  cliffs  drop  sheer  into 
the  sea,  grudging  even  a  beach,  we  came  upon  some 
Black  Caribs  fishing  from  their  boats  in  the  deep  water. 
Their  method  is  peculiar  and  is  known  as  "bulling," 
probably  a  corruption  of  "balling."  A  single  hook  on 
the  end  of  a  line  is  weighted  and  lowered  till  it  touches 
bottom.  Then  the  line  is  hauled  in  a  few  feet  and  a 
knot  is  tied  so  that  when  the  baited  hook  is  lowered  it 


130  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

will  hang  just  above  the  bottom.  The  line  is  taken 
into  the  boat  and  the  sinker  removed  from  the  hook 
which  is  now  baited  with  a  piece  of  sardine  or  smelt. 
Around  this  baited  hook  a  ball  is  formed  of  meal  made 
of  the  same  small  fish.  The  hook  is  then  gently  low- 
ered till  the  knot  indicates  that  the  double  bait  has 
reached  the  haunts  of  the  fish  which  feeds  close  to  the 
bottom.  With  a  quick  upward  jerk  the  ball  is  broken 
away  from  the  hook.  The  scattered  fish-meal  draws 
the  attention  of  the  fish  which  investigates  the  floating 
food  and  presently  goes  for  the  large  piece  hanging  in 
the  center.  And  so  like  the  rest  of  us  who  get  into 
trouble  when  we  reach  out  for  the  big  piece  the  fish 
finds  that  there  is  a  string  tied  to  this  food  and  that 
the  line  is  too  strong  for  him.  The  wrist  and  finger 
that  hold  the  other  end  of  the  line  are  sensitive  to  the 
slightest  nibble. 

We  rounded  De  Volet  Point,  which  corresponds  to 
Tangalanga  on  Grenada,  and  I  once  more  felt  the  roll 
of  the  trades.  A  sea  slopped  over  the  gunwale  and 
wet  my  leg  which  I  drew  into  the  canoe.  We  were  now 
all  island  savages  together  holding  up  our  ticklish  craft 
by  the  play  of  our  bodies.  I  looked  across  the  channel 
to  Saint  Lucia  with  her  twin  Pitons  rising  distinct, 
thirty  miles  away.  Batiste  pulled  himself  together  and 
told  me  that  on  very  clear  days  he  could  see  the  glint  of 
the  sun  on  the  cutlasses  in  the  cane  fields  on  the  moun- 
tain slopes  near  Vieux  Fort. 

"You  like  some  sweet  water?"  he  asked,  and  at  the 
question  my  throat  went  too  dry  for  speech.  We 
turned  into  a  little  cove — you  will  find  it  called  "Petit 
Baleine"  on  the  chart,  although  if  a  whale  swam  into  it 


PREPARING    TO    LEAVE    UNION.     WALKER    SITTING    ON    THE    RAIL 
OF    HIS    SLOOP  AND   REGARDING  THE   "YAKABOO"   DOUBTFULLY. 


COMING    BACK    FOR    REPAIRS — SIX     MEN    DOING    THE    WORK    OF 
TWO. 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  131 

he  could  never  get  out  unless  he  could  crawl  backwards. 
While  the  men  held  the  boat  off  the  rocks,  Batiste  and 
I  jumped  ashore  with  four  empty  calabashes.  A  tiny 
stream  which  came  from  high  up  on  the  slope  of  the 
Soufriere  Mountains,  with  the  chill  of  the  mists  still  in 
it,  poured  out  from  the  dense  foliage  above  us,  spread 
itself  into  a  veil  of  spray,  gathered  itself  together  again 
on  a  rocky  face,  and  fell  into  a  deep  shaded  basin  into 
which  we  put  our  faces  and  drank  till  our  paunches 


How  the  Caribs  Rig  a  Calabash  for  Carrying  Water 

gurgled.  At  times  it  is  hard  not  to  be  a  pig.  Then,  as 
if  not  satisfied  with  what  Nature  intended  us  to  carry 
away,  we  filled  our  calabashes.  These  were  as  they 
have  always  been  with  the  Carib — left  whole  with 
merely  a  small  hole  about  an  inch  and  a  half  in  dia- 
meter in  the  top.  They  are  carried  by  means  of  a  wisp 
of  grass  with  a  loop  for  the  fingers  in  one  end  and  with 
the  other  end  braided  around  a  small  piece  of  wood 
that  is  inserted  into  the  hole  to  act  as  a  toggle.  It  is 
easy  to  carry  water  in  this  way  without  spilling  it  for 
when  the  calabash  is  full  there  is  but  a  small  surface 
for  the  water  to  vibrate  on.     Pere  Labat  mentions  a 


132  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

curious  use  of  the  calabash  in  his  day.  In  order  to 
make  a  receptacle  in  which  valuable  papers  could  be 
hidden  without  fear  of  destruction  by  moisture  a  cala- 
bash was  cut  across  at  a  point  a  quarter  or  a  fifth  of 
its  length  from  the  stem  end.  To  cover  the  opening, 
another  calabash  was  cut  with  a  mouth  somewhat  larg- 
er than  the  first  one  and  they  were  bound  together  with 
thongs  of  the  mahaut.  This  calabash  safe  was  then 
hidden  in  the  branches  of  trees  that  had  large  leaves 
for  the  sake  of  obscurity.  They  were  called  coyembouc 
by  the  Caribs  who  invented  them. 

We  put  off  again,  passing  the  ruined  estate  of 
"Fancy,"  a  mute  reminder  of  that  smiling  day  when 
destruction  had  come  over  the  top  of  the  mountains  to 
the  south — one  of  Nature's  back-hand  blows.  A  little 
beyond,  our  row  of  twelve  miles  came  to  an  end  and 
we  beached  through  the  heavy  surf  at  Owia  Bay  where 
I  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  Yellow 
Caribs  and  negroes.  I  was  a  bit  disappointed  till  Ba- 
tiste told  me  that  this  was  not  Point  Espagiiol.  We 
should  have  to  go  the  rest  of  the  way  by  land  for  the 
surf  at  Sandy  Bay,  he  said,  was  too  high  to  run  with 
the  loaded  canoe.  I  wondered  at  this  till  I  actually  saw 
the  surf  two  days  later. 

Batiste  and  his  crew  packed  my  family  of  yellow 
bags  on  their  heads  and  marched  off  on  their  way  to 
Point  Espagnol  while  I  waited  for  a  pony  hospitably 
offered  by  the  manager  of  an  arrowroot  estate  on  the 
slopes  above  the  bay. 

The  pony  was  a  heavenly  loan  but  there  was  a  cun- 
ning in  his  eye  that  did  not  belong  to  the  realm  above. 
His  eye  took  me  in  as  I  mounted  him,  somewhat  stiffly, 


^ 


THE    RIM    OF    THE    CRATER. 


A  THOUSAND  FEET  BELOW,   HELD  IN   THE  BOWL  OF   THE  CRATER 
IS   A   LAKE  NEARLY   A    HALF    MILE   IN    DIAMETER/' 


CLIMBING  SOUFRIERE  OF  ST.  VINCENT  133 

for  the  pain  of  the  sea  eggs  was  getting  beyond  my 
foot.  That  eye  made  careful  note  that  I  wore  no 
spurs,  neither  did  I  carry  a  whip  nor  even  a  switch. 
He  started  off  at  a  brisk  pace  which  he  kept  up  till  we 
were  well  along  the  main  road.  Then  he  stopped.  I 
clucked  and  chirruped  and  whistled  and  swore.  I  also 
beat  his  leathery  sides  with  my  heels.  No  perceptible 
inclination  to  go  forward.  I  talked  to  him  but  he  did 
not  understand  my  language.  There  was  something, 
however,  that  I  knew  he  would  understand  and  I  pulled 
off  my  belt.  If  you  must  subject  by  force  or  punish- 
ment, let  it  be  swift,  sure  and  effective.  The  brute  had 
carelessly  neglected  to  take  note  of  a  suspicious  lump 
under  my  coat  which  hid  a  38-40  Colt.  First  I  circled 
my  legs  around  his  barrel  body  after  the  manner  of  a 
lead  cavalry  soldier  "Made  in  Germany."  Then  with 
my  gun  in  my  left  hand  and  my  belt  in  my  right,  buckle- 
end  being  synoymous  with  business-end,  I  gave  a  warn- 
ing yell  and  let  him  have  the  buckle  in  his  ribs  while 
the  revolver  went  off  close  to  his  left  ear.  We  rapidly 
caught  up  with  Batiste — in  fact,  my  steed  was  even  re- 
luctant in  slowing  down  when  I  pulled  him  up  behind 
the  last  Indian. 

While  my  little  caravan  shuffled  along  ahead  of  me, 
I  leisurely  enjoyed  the  scenery  of  this  level  bit  of  road 
which  skirts  the  slope  of  the  Soufriere  Mountains  at 
the  very  edge  where  it  breaks  down  to  the  sea.  Some 
two  hundred  feet  below  me  an  intensely  blue  sea  broke 
against  the  rocks  into  a  white  foam  that  washed  out 
into  a  tracery  of  fine  lace  at  every  lull;  the  rocks,  the 
blue,  and  the  foam  like  that  of  the  Mediterranean 
along  a  bit  of  Italian  coast.    Landwards  the  slope  rose 


134  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

in  a  powerful  curve,  heavily  wooded,  bearing  numer- 
ous small  peaks,  to  the  Soufriere  range  which  hides 
the  volcano  from  view  till  one  has  reached  the  ex- 
tremity of  Point  Espagnol. 

The  point  is  a  peninsular-like  promontory,  the  top  of 
which  rises  into  two  hills.  Each  of  these  hills  is  the 
site  of  a  small  Carib  village  of  about  forty-five  inhabi- 
tants, the  last  of  the  Yellow  Caribs  of  the  Antilles. 
After  a  quick  survey  I  decided  upon  the  farther  vil- 
lage which  is  a  bit  more  to  seaward  and  here  I  dis- 
mounted in  the  cool  shade  of  the  grove  which  gives  the 
huts  a  pleasant  sense  of  seclusion.  After  circling 
around,  much  as  a  dog  that  is  preparing  to  lie  down 
in  the  tall  grass,  I  selected  a  spot  on  the  edge  of  the 
little  group  of  huts  and  set  up  my  tent  looking  out  over 
the  Atlantic  which  lay  some  three  hundred  feet  below. 
Since  I  could  not  see  the  setting  of  the  sun,  I  faced  the 
tent  toward  his  rising.  Here  the  cool  trade  wind  be- 
lied the  terrific  heat  of  Sandy  Bay  below  with  its  in- 
cessant roar  of  surf. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE 

1  NEEDED  no  introduction  to  the  Caribs,  for  they 
had  known  that  I  would  come  since  my  first  meet- 
ing with  the  men  in  Bequia.  They  had  also  learned  of 
my  arrival  at  Chateau  Belaire  and  that  in  another  day 
I  should  be  with  them.  One  poor  old  woman  had  been 
watching  all  day  to  see  me  come  flying  over  the  Sou- 
friere  Mountains  Batiste  told  her  of  the  Yakaboo 
and  that  if  it  did  not  fly  it  was  at  least  rudderless.  She 
consoled  herself  with,  "He  sail  widout  rudder  1" 

There  was  some  satisfaction  in  watching  me  and  as 
I  pitched  my  tent  and  put  my  house  in  order,  I  had  an 
interested  crowd  about  me  that  did  not  use  their  fin- 
gers as  well  as  their  eyes  with  which  to  see.  About  a 
third  of  the  village  was  there  when  I  arrived.  Besides 
Batiste  and  his  men,  those  who  gathered  around  my 
tent  were  the  younger  women  who  were  spending  the 
day  in  baking  cassava  cakes  for  the  market,  the  chil- 
dren, and  the  old  women  who  could  do  no  other  work 
than  tend  a  coal-pot  or  sweep  out  the  huts.  The  men 
were  either  fishing  or  were  down  the  coast  at  George- 
town to  sell  fish  and  the  produce  which  the  women  had 
raised.  The  women  are  the  farmers  and  we  could  see 
their  patient  forms  moving  goat-like  along  the  furrows 
high  up  on  the  mountain  slopes  where  they  cultivate 
cassava,  tanniers,  and  arrowroot. 

135 


136  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

One  of  the  old  women  noticed  that  I  was  limping 
and  as  soon  as  I  had  everything  ship-shape  in  my  house, 
she  went  to  her  hut  and  returned  with  some  soft  tallow 
and  a  coal-pot.  Batiste  said,  "You  goin'  lose  sea  egg 
dis  night."  First  she  smeared  the  sole  of  my  foot  with 
the  tallow  and  then  lighting  a  splinter  of  dry  wood 
from  her  coal-pot  she  passed  the  blaze  close  to  the  skin, 
almost  blistering  the  sole  of  my  foot.  Then  she  told 
me  to  bandage  the  foot  and  not  to  walk  on  it — an 
unnecessary  caution. 

With  Indian  tact,  they  left  me  to  loaf  away  the 
waning  afternoon  on  my  old  companion,  the  blanket 
bag.  I  had  begun  the  day  in  an  idle  way — let  it  end 
that  way.  There  had  been  many  places  where  I  had 
loafed  away  the  end  of  an  afternoon  on  my  blanket  in 
just  this  way,  but  none  of  them  will  hold  its  place  in 
my  memory  with  this  camp  of  mine  on  the  edge  of 
the  Carib  village.  The  huts  were  behind  me  and  in  the 
vista  of  my  tent  door  there  was  no  form  of  the  ubi- 
quitous native  to  distract,  for  there  is  no  depth  of 
character  to  romance  upon  when  one  sees  a  silent  form 
shuffle  along  some  bush  path.  Behind  me  the  Caribs 
were  quiet — I  would  not  have  known  there  were  chil- 
dren or  dogs  in  the  village.  Peace  was  there  with  just 
the  rustle  of  the  leaves  above  me  as  an  accompani- 
ment; the  song  of  a  bird  would  have  been  thrilling. 
Below  me  the  Atlantic  rolled  under  the  trade  wind 
through  the  channel  and  became  the  Caribbean.  A 
school  of  porpoise  rounded  the  point  and  headed  for 
the  Spanish  Main,  mischief-bent  like  a  fleet  of  corsairs. 
Well  out  in  the  channel  my  eye  caught  a  little  puff  of 
steam  and  I  knew  that  it  came  from  a  "humpback." 


DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE        187 

Finally  as  the  sun  sent  his  last  long  slant  across  the 
water  whence  we  had  come  in  the  morning,  it  caught 
the  smoke  of  the  coasting  steamer  entering  the  bay  of 
Vieux  Fort  in  Saint  Lucia — a  hint  of  industry  to  specu- 
late upon.  With  the  shutting  down  of  darkness  one  of 
the  old  women  brought  me  a  coal-pot  and  I  cooked  my 
supper  while  the  stars  came  out  in  an  inquisitive  way 
to  see  what  I  was  doing. 

By  this  time  the  village  had  assembled  and  fed  it- 
self. When  the  people  found  that  I  was  not  unwilling, 
they  flocked  around  the  door  of  my  tent  and  I  chatted 
with  those  who  could  talk  English,  these  in  turn  inter- 
preted our  conversation  to  the  others.  After  a  while, 
my  old  sea  egg  woman  of  the  afternoon — I  could  hard- 
ly tell  one  old  woman  from  another,  they  were  like  old 
hickory  nuts  with  the  bark  on — said,  "Now  de  sea  egg 
come  out."  I  took  off  the  bandage  and  she  put  my 
foot  in  her  lap.  Some  one  brought  a  gommier  flam- 
beau with  its  pungent  odour  that  somehow  reminded 
me  of  a  vacant-lot  bonfire  into  which  a  rubber  shoe  had 
found  its  way. 

It  would  have  been  one  of  the  best  photographs  of 
my  whole  cruise  could  I  have  caught  those  faces  around 
that  burning  flambeau.  Now  for  the  first  time  I  could 
really  observe  them  in  unconscious  pose.  Notwith- 
standing a  considerable  amount  of  admixture  that  must 
have  undergone  with  the  blacks,  there  was  still  a  satis- 
fying amount  of  Indian  blood  left  in  these  people.  I 
said  Indian  purposely  for  I  do  not  care  to  use  the  ex- 
pression Carib  in  this  sentence.  I  believe  these  people 
to  be  more  of  the  peaceful  Arawauk  than  the  fierce 
Carib,   although  time  and  environment  and  subjuga- 


138  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

tion  may  have  had  this  softening  effect  upon  them. 
How  much  truth  there  may  be  in  it  I  do  not  know, 
but  the  impression  seems  to  be  that  in  these  islands  the 
Caribs  originally  came  from  the  north,  advancing  from 
island  to  island  and  conquering  as  they  went  the  peace- 
ful islander,  the  Arawauk,  who  was  the  real  native  of 
the  Lesser  Antilles.  Upon  raiding  an  Arawauk  settle- 
ment the  Caribs  would  kill  most  of  the  men  and  what 
women  and  children  they  did  not  eat  they  took  to  them- 
selves as  wives  and  slaves.  Through  their  offspring 
by  their  Carib  masters  the  Arawauk  women  introduced 
their  language  and  their  softening  influence  into  the 
tribes  so  that  little  by  little  the  nature  of  the  Carib 
was  perceptibly  changed.  Thus  the  Arawauks  became 
ultimately  the  race  conquerors.  In  1 600  Herrera  says, 
"It  has  been  observed  that  the  Caribbees  in  Dominica 
and  those  of  Saint  Lucia  and  Saint  Vincent  scarce  un- 
derstand one  another's  language,"  which  tends  to  show 
that  the  lingual  change  was  then  going  on  throughout 
the  islands.  When  I  questioned  the  Caribs  of  Point 
Espagnol  in  regard  to  the  Indians  of  Dominica  they 
expressed  entire  ignorance  of  their  fellow  savages. 
These  people  whom  I  saw  in  the  light  of  the  flambeau 
had  the  softened  features  of  a  race  dying  for  the  same 
reason  that  our  pure  American  is  dying — his  country 
is  changing  and  he  cannot  change  with  it.  I  thought 
of  what  Pere  Labat  said  of  them  three  hundred  years 
ago —  "Their  faces  seemed  melancholie,  they  are  said 
to  be  good  people." 

Holding  my  foot  close  to  the  light,  the  old  woman 
pinched  the  sole  on  either  side  of  one  of  the  purple 
marks  which  indicated  the  lair  of  a  sea  egg  point.    At 


DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE        139 

the  pressure  the  point  launched  forth,  with  scarcely  any 
pain,  eased  on  its  way  by  a  small  drop  of  matter.  The 
blistering  with  the  hot  grease  had  caused  each  minute 
wound  to  fester.  In  the  next  minute  or  two  the  largest 
of  the  points,  about  fourteen  in  number,  were  squeezed 
out.  Some  of  the  smaller  points  along  the  edge  of  the 
sole  had  not  yet  festered,  but  they  came  out  the  next 
morning. 

The  fun  was  over,  we  had  had  our  preliminary  chat, 
the  flambeau  had  burned  down,  and  the  village  turned 
in.    So  did  I. 

On  "calm"  mornings,  that  is,  when  the  wind  is  not 
blowing  more  than  ten  or  twelve  miles  an  hour,  a  stiff 
squall  bustles  ahead  of  the  sun  as  if  to  say,  "Get  up! 
By  the  time  you  have  cooked  breakfast  the  sun  will  be 
having  a  peep  to  see  how  you  have  begun  the  day.  You 
must  take  advantage  of  the  cool  morning  hours,  you 
know,"  and  in  a  moment  is  rushing  away  toward 
Honduras.  And  so  it  was  this  morning.  Confound 
Nature  and  her  alarm  clock  that  sprinkled  in  through 
my  open  door! — but  after  all  she  was  right. 

Fishing  was  the  order  of  the  day  and  after  the  sun 
is  up  it  takes  but  a  short  time  to  warm  the  black  sands 
of  the  bay  below  to  a  hellish  heat.  My  old  woman 
produced  her  coal-pot — it  seemed  to  be  kindled  with 
the  everlasting  flame  of  the  Roman  Vestals — and  I 
soon  had  my  chocolate  cooking  and  my  bacon  frying 
while  I  bade  a  not  reluctant  adieu  to  the  last  few  sea 
egg  points.  My  foot  was  free  of  pain  and  when  I 
walked  I  could  have  sworn  that  there  had  been  noth- 
ing like  sea  egg  points  in  it  the  day  or  even  the  week 
before.  I  stuffed  a  few  biscuits  in  a  clothes  bag,  dressed 


140  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

my  camera  in  its  sea  togs,  and  was  off  with  the  fish- 
ermen to  the  beach.  There  were  twelve  besides  my- 
self, four  to  a  boat,  two  to  row  and  tw#  to  fish — I 
should  be  the  fifth  in  Batiste's  boat. 

The  morning  was  still  fresh  from  the  cool  night  air 
as  we  filed  down  the  cliff  road  to  the  beach.  The  sur- 
face of  the  sand  was  still  dew  damp.  There  were  three 
dug-outs  waiting  for  us  under  the  protection  of  a 
thatched  roof  supported  by  poles,  as  if  some  queer 
four-legged  shore  bird  had  just  laid  them.  There  was 
no  end  of  puttering  before  we  could  start,  a  bit  of  gear 
to  be  overhauled,  a  stitch  or  two  to  be  taken  in  a  sail  so 
patched  that  I  doubt  whether  there  was  a  thread  of 
the  original  cloth  in  it,  and  a  rudder  pintle  to  be  tink- 
ered with.  I  counted  fifty-six  patches  in  our  mainsail, 
although  its  area  was  not  more  than  six  square  yards. 

When  we  dragged  the  three  boats  down  to  the  edge 
of  the  water  the  sun  was  just  crawling  up  through  the 
fringe  of  horizon  clouds.  The  surf  was  not  running 
so  high  as  on  the  day  before,  and  yet  I  could  see  that 
we  should  have  to  use  care  in  launching  the  canoes. 
We  dragged  the  first  boat  down  till  its  bow  was  in  the 
foam  and  with  the  crew  seated  at  their  oars  we  waited. 
There  was  a  lull  and  as  a  wave  broke  smaller  than  the 
rest  we  launched  the  boat  on  its  outgoing  tide.  The 
men  caught  the  water  and  lifted  their  boat  clear  of  the 
surf  line  as  a  sea  curled  and  broke  under  their  stern. 
We  got  off  the  beach  with  equal  success.  Contrary  to 
the  lucky  rule  of  three  the  last  boat  was  swamped  and 
had  to  try  over  again. 

Once  off  shore,  we  stopped  rowing  and  stepped  our 
rig,  which  consisted  of  two  masts  with  sprit  sails,  one 


BLACK    CARIB    BOY    AT    OWIA    BAY.     HIS    CATAMARAN    IS    TAXED 
AT    THREE    PENCE    PER    FOOT. 


'THERE  IS   STILL  A  SATISFYING  AMOUNT  OF  INDIAN  BLOOD  LEFT 
IN  THESE  PEOPLE/' 


DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE        141 

smaller  than  the  other,  the  smaller  sail  being  stepped 
forward  so  that  we  looked  like  a  Mackinaw  rig  re- 
versed. While  these  boats  have  no  keel  or  center- 
board,  they  somehow  manage  to  hang  onto  the  wind 
fairly  well  due  to  their  depth  of  hold.  They  cannot, 
of  course,  beat  to  any  purpose,  still  they  can  manage 
to  sail  about  seven  points  off  the  wind  which  is  good 


•   Rig  of  the  Carib  Canoe 

enough  in  the  Carib  waters  where  there  is  always  a 
shore  to  leeward.  With  free  sheets  we  ran  for  a  bank 
to  the  southeastward  where  the  "black  fin"  abounds 
and  here  we  took  down  our  sails  and  proceeded  to 
fish.  The  other  boats  ran  to  similar  banks  to  the  south 
of  us. 

The  black  fin  is  a  small  fish,  about  the  size  of  a  large 
perch,  its  scales  etched  in  a  delicate  red  against  a 
white  skin.    The  name  comes  from  a  black  spot  at  the 


142  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

hinge  of  the  pectoral  fin.  Instead  of  anchoring,  the 
two  bow  men  rowed  slowly  while  the  rest  of  us  fished. 
In  this  way  we  could  skirt  the  edge  of  the  reef  till  we 
found  good  fishing  and  then  follow  the  school  as  it 
drifted  with  the  tide  while  feeding. 

We  used  the  ordinary  hand  line,  weighted  with  a 
stone  about  the  size  of  one's  fist.  Above  the  stone,  a 
gang  of  from  four  to  six  small  hooks  is  baited  with 
pieces  of  this  same  black  fin.  Like  bulling  this  too  is 
deep-water  fishing  for  we  lowered  fully  two  hundred 
feet  of  line  before  the  stone  reached  bottom.  The 
line  is  then  pulled  up  a  few  feet  and  held  there  to  await 
the  nibble  of  the  fish.  As  soon  as  a  bite  is  felt  (one 
must  develop  a  delicate  touch  to  feel  the  nibble  of  a 
one  pound  fish  at  the  end  of  a  weighted  line  two  hun- 
dred feet  long) ,  the  line  is  given  a  lightning  yank  and 
pulled  in  as  fast  as  possible.  Hand  over  hand,  as 
quickly  as  one  forearm  can  pass  the  other,  the  line 
is  hauled  in  over  the  gunwale  while  it  saws  its  way  into 
the  wood. 

Sometimes  there  are  two  or  even  three  fish  on  the 
end  of  the  line  when  it  is  hauled  into  the  canoe.  I  man- 
aged, however,  to  reduce  the  average  considerably  at 
first  for  I  usually  found  that  I  had  lost  both  fish  and 
bait.  Finally  to  the  joy  of  Batiste,  who  considered  me 
his  protege,  I  began  to  bring  in  my  share.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day  we  ate  our  scanty  luncheon  and  then  took 
to  hauling  in  black  fins  again. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  a  fierce  squall  came  down, 
dragging  half  a  square  mile  of  breaking  seas  with  it. 
The  Indians  began  to  undress  and  I  did  the  same,  fold- 
ing my  shirt  and  trousers  and  stowing  them  in  one  of 


DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE         143 

my  oiled  bags,  much  to  the  admiration  of  the  others. 
We  got  overboard  just  as  the  squall  struck  and  I 
slipped  into  the  water  between  Batiste  and  one  Rabat 
— they  were  used  to  fighting  sharks  in  the  water.  With 
three  of  us  on  one  side  and  two  on  the  other,  we  held 
the  boat,  bow  on  to  the  seas,  depressing  the  stern  to 
help  the  bow  take  the  larger  combers  and  then  easing 
up  as  the  foam  swept  over  our  heads.  In  a  jiffy  the 
squall  was  past,  like  a  small  hurricane,  and  as  we 
crawled  into  the  boat  again  I  watched  it  race  up  the 
mountain  slopes  and  sweep  the  mists  off  the  Soufriere. 
In  the  break  that  followed,  the  top  of  the  volcano  was 
exposed  for  a  few  minutes,  my  second  and  last  view  of 
the  crater. 

We  again  pulled  up  black  fins  till  the  fish  covered 
the  bottom  of  the  canoe  and  we  ran  for  home  toward 
the  end  of  the  afternoon. 

I  now  found  out  why  the  puttering  of  preparation 
was  done  in  the  morning.  No  sane  man  would  do  more 
than  the  absolutely  necessary  work  of  dragging  his 
boat  under  the  shade  of  the  thatched  roof  and  seeing 
that  his  gear  was  stowed  under  the  roof  poles  in  the 
heat  of  that  beach.  We  made  all  haste  for  the  cliff 
road  and  were  soon  in'  the  breezy  shade  of  our  village 
grove.  My  share  of  the  black  fins  went  to  the  old  sea 
egg  doctor  who  selected  one  of  the  largest  and  fried  it 
for  me  with  all  sorts  of  queer  herbs  and  peppers.  This 
with  tanniers,  tea,  and  cassava  cakes  made  my  supper. 
It  was  an  easy  existence,  this  with  the  Caribs,  for  I 
did  but  little  cooking.  I  merely  had  to  indicate  what 
I  wanted  and  some  one  or  other  would  start  a  coal- 
pot  before  my  tent  and  the  meal  was  soon  cooking. 


144  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

I  have  hinted  at  the  flexibility  of  the  Indian's  lan- 
guage and  that  night  I  found  a  similar  flexibility  in 
savage  custom.  No  doubt  these  Caribs  had  quickly 
lost  most  of  their  ancient  rites  and  customs  with  the  ad- 
vance of  civilisation.  I  found  that  in  like  manner  they 
easily  adopted  new  customs,  one  of  them  being  the 
"wake."  In  the  day's  fishing  I  had  caught  fully  thirty 
black  fins  and  had  hauled  in  my  line  half  again  as  many 
times,  say  forty-five.  Forty-five  times  two  hundred 
means  nine  thousand  feet  of  line  hauled  in  hand  over 
hand  as  quickly  as  possible.  This  kind  of  fishing  was 
exercise  and  I  was  tired.  I  went  to  bed  early,  but  I 
slept  not.  It  was  that  truly  heathen  rite,  the  "wake," 
which  I  believe  comes  from  the  Emerald  Isle.  May 
all  Hibernian  priests  in  the  West  Indies  take  note — it 
is  the  savage  side  of  their  religion  that  takes  its  hold 
upon  the  negro  and  the  Indian.  May  these  same  Hi- 
bernians know  that  it  was  simply  the  "wake"  that  the 
Indians  took  from  their  faith  for  they  are  in  religion 
Anglicans.  Adapted  would  have  been  a  better  word 
for  the  wake  of  the  Caribs  is  a  combination  of  what  we 
know  as  wake  and  the  similar  African  custom  called 
saracca.  A  tremendous  feast  of  rice,  peas,  chickens, 
and  any  other  food  that  may  be  at  hand  is  cooked  for 
the  spirits  who  come  in  the  night  and  eat.  But  the  poor 
spirits  are  not  left  to  enjoy  this  repast  in  peace  for 
the  living  sit  around  the  food  with  lighted  candles  and 
song.  In  the  morning  the  food  is  gone  and  usually 
there  is  evidence  that  spirits  have  entered  into  the 
stomachs  if  not  the  ceremony  of  the  mourners. 

There  is  one  pleasing  feature  in  this  mourning  cere- 
mony; while  it  is  usually  begun  with  a  truly  sorrowful 


DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE         145 

mien  it  often  ends  with  all  concerned  in  a  happier  mood 
to  take  up  their  worldly  burdens  again.  The  Caribs 
of  Point  Espagfiol  were  content  merely  with  singing. 
When  one  of  their  number  dies  they  pray  on  the  third 
night  after  death  and  on  the  ninth  they  sing  during 
the  entire  night.  This  happened  to  be  the  ninth.  In 
the  evening,  then,  they  all  assembled  in  one  of  the 
larger  huts,  not  far  from  my  tent. 

At  first  I  thought  it  was  only  a  sort  of  prayer  meet- 
ing and  I  managed  to  doze  off  with  a  familiar  hymn 
ringing  in  my  ears.  They  would  sing  one  hymn  till 
their  interest  in  the  tune  began  to  flag  and  their  voices 
lower.  Then  they  would  attack  another  hymn  with 
renewed  vigour.  At  each  attack  I  would  awaken  and 
could  only  doze  off  again  when  the  process  of  vocal 
mastication  was  nearly  completed.  They  were  still 
singing  when  the  sun  rose. 

Sunday  came,  as  it  always  should,  a  beautiful  day 
and  I  lay  on  my  blankets  till  the  sun  was  well  above 
the  horizon,  watching  my  breakfast  cook  on  the  coal- 
pot  as  a  lazy,  well-fed  dog  lies  in  his  kennel  meditating 
a  bone.  There  seemed  to  be  more  than  the  usual  morn- 
ing bustle  in  the  huts  behind  me  and  I  found  that  the 
whole  village  was  preparing  to  go  to  church.  I  must 
go  with  them,  so  I  took  off  my  shirt,  washed  it,  and 
hung  it  up  to  dry.  Then  I  carefully  washed  my  face 
in  warm  water  and  proceeded  to  shave,  using  the 
scalpel  from  my  instrument  case  for  a  razor.  The 
polished  inside  cover  of  my  watch  made  a  very  good 
mirror.  A  varnish  brush,  if  it  be  carefully  washed  out 
with  soap  and  hot  water  immediately  after  it  has  been 
used  will  be  just  as  soft  and  clean  as  when  new.    I  had 


146  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

such  a  brush  which  I  used  for  painting  and  varnishing 
the  Yakaboo, — it  was  not  a  bad  distributer  of  lather. 
It  is  remarkable  how  a  shave  will  bolster  one's  self- 
respect;  I  actually  walked  straighter  afterwards.  I 
donned  the  trousers  that  I  had  washed  in  the  shower 
bath  in  Kingstown  and  with  my  clean  shirt,  which  had 
quickly  dried  in  the  sun  and  wind,  I  made  a  fairly 
decent  appearance — that  is,  in  comparison  with  my 
usual  dress.  A  clean  bandana  handkerchief  completed 
the  toilet. 

With  church-going  came  the  insufferable  torture  of 
shoes — that  is,  for  the  aristocrats  who  owned  them. 
My  own  I  was  saving  for  climbs  like  the  Soufriere  and 
I  used  moccasins.  Shoes,  however,  are  the  correct 
things  to  wear  in  these  parts  at  weddings,  funerals,  and 
church.  Aside  from  these  occasions  they  are  never 
worn. 

The  exodus  began  a  little  after  ten  o'clock  and  in 
five  minutes  there  was  not  a  soul  left  in  the  village. 
The  goodly  piece  of  road  to  Owia  was,  I  thought,  a 
measure  in  a  certain  way  of  the  faith  of  these  people. 
One  is  apt  to  be  biased  in  their  favour  but  still  I  cannot 
think  that  it  was  merely  a  desire  for  a  bit  of  diversion 
to  break  the  monotony  of  their  lives  that  they  all  went 
to  church  as  they  did  on  this  Sunday. 

I  believed  as  I  walked  with  them  that  they  were 
obeying  a  true  call  to  worship.  The  call  to  worship 
became  a  tangible  one  as  soon  as  we  had  circumvented 
the  ravine  and  were  on  the  road  to  Owia.  It  was  the 
clang  of  a  bell,  incessant  and  regular — irritating  to 
me — not  a  call  but  a  command — the  Sunday  morning 
chore  of  a  negro  sexton.    The  church  proper  had  been 


DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE         147 

destroyed  by  the  earthquakes  attendant  upon  the  erup- 
tion of  the  Soufriere — the  ruins  being  another  mute 
piece  of  evidence  of  the  former  splendour  of  these  is- 
lands, for  it  had  been  built  of  grey  stone  and  granite 
brought  from  oversea,  a  small  copy  of  an  English 
country  church. 

The  bell  was  rescued  after  the  earthquake  from 
the  pile  of  debris  which  had  once  been  its  home  and 
mounted  where  it  now  hangs,  on  a  cross  piece  between 
two  uprights.  On  Sunday  mornings  the  sexton  places 
a  ladder  against  this  gallows  and  climbs  up  where  he 
pounds  the  bell  as  if  with  every  stroke  he  would 
drive  some  lagging  Christian  to  worship.  Sheep-like, 
we  obeyed  its  call  till  the  last  of  our  flock  was  in  the 
schoolhouse,  where  the  service  is  held — when  the 
clanging  ceased. 

The  congregation  was  part  negro,  but  we  Indians 
sat  on  our  own  side  of  the  building,  where  we  could 
look  out  of  the  windows,  across  the  little  patches  of 
cultivation  to  the  blue  Atlantic.  We  were  as  much  out 
of  doors  as  in,  where,  in  truth,  we  are  apt  to  find  the 
greater  part  of  our  religion — if  we  look  for  it. 

When  I  said  schoolhouse,  I  meant  a  frame  shed, 
about  thirty  feet  by  fifty,  with  unpainted  benches  for 
the  pupils  and  a  deal  table  at  the  far  end  for  the 
schoolmaster.  Letters  of  the  alphabet  and  numerals 
wandered  about  on  the  unpainted  walls  and  shutters  in 
chalky  array  like  warring  tribes  on  tapestry,  doing 
their  utmost  to  make  a  lasting  impression  in  the  little 
brown  and  ebony  heads  of  the  school  children. 

The  service  was  Anglican,  read  by  a  negro  reader, 
for  the  parson  is  stationed  in  Georgetown  and  makes 


148  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

his  visit  only  once  a  month.  We  shall  let  him  pass  in 
favour  of  the  woman  who  led  the  choir.  I  knew  her  as 
she  arose ;  I  had  seen  that  expression  from  my  earliest 
days,  the  adamant  Christian  whom  one  finds  the  world 
over  in  any  congregation.  This  woman's  voice  was 
as  metallic  as  the  bell  outside  and  in  her  whole  manner 
and  bearing  was  that  zeal  which  expresses  the  most 
selfish  one  of  us  all,  the  Christian  more  by  force  of 
will  than  by  meekness  of  heart.  She  sang.  The  choir 
and  the  miserable  congregation  merely  kept  up  a  feeble 
murmur  of  accompaniment. 

I  said  miserable,  for  did  we  not  feel  that  there  was 
no  chance  for  God  to  hear  our  weak  voices  above  that 
clarion  clang?  Between  hymns  my  mind  was  free 
to  wander  out  through  the  windows,  where  it  found 
peace  and  rest. 

The  offending  shoes  had  come  off  after  the  first 
hymn  and  now  furtive  movements  here  and  there  pro- 
claimed the  resuming  of  that  civilised  instrument  of 
torture.    The  last  hymn  was  about  to  be  sung. 

After  the  heat  of  the  day  I  wandered  back  to  the 
village  alone.  My  old  sea  egg  woman  was  sitting  on 
the  grassy  slope  just  below  my  tent  and  I  took  up  my 
note -book  and  sat  down  beside  her.  She  was  in  a 
reminiscent  mood  and  I  soon  got  her  to  talk  about 
her  natal  language.  She  and  two  other  old  women 
were  the  only  ones  who  knew  the  Caribbean  tongue 
in  this  village — there  was  an  equal  number  in 
the  other  village.  When  these  old  people  go,  with 
them  will  go  the  living  tongue  of  the  native  of  the 
Antilles — the  words  that  Columbus  heard  when  he 
discovered  these  islands.     She  was  intensely  pleased 


DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE         149 

at  the  interest  I  showed  in  her  language  and  I  had 
no  trouble  in  getting  her  to  talk. 

Most  of  the  words  were  unchanged  from  the  time 
of  Bryan  Edwards  in  1790,  when  the  conquest  of  the 
Arawauks  must  have  been  more  or  less  complete. 
Some  words  such  an  Sun — Vehu,  now  Wey-u;  fire — 
what-ho,  now  wah-tiih — were  merely  softened.  Other 
words  showed  a  slight  change  such  as  water — tona, 
now  doonab;  fish — oto,  now  oodu.  There  were  some 
words  that  had  been  changed  completely,  such  as  moon 
— m6ne,  now  haat  or  hatf. 

Most  interesting  perhaps  to  the  lay  mind  are  the 
onomatopoetic  words  that  seem  to  take  their  meaning 
from  their  sound.  A  word  common  to  many  savage 
languages  all  over  the  world  was  Weh-wey  for  tree, 
suggesting  the  waving  of  the  tree's  branches,  he-wey 
for  snake  (pronounced  with  a  soft  breath),  suggesting 
the  noise  of  the  snake  in  dry  grass,  and  ah-tugah  to 
chop.  I  watched  her  wrinkled  old  face  with  its  far- 
off  look  and  could  see  the  memory  of  a  word  come  to 
the  surface  and  the  feeling  of  satisfaction  that  came 
into  her  mind  as  she  recalled  the  language  of  her 
youth. 

I  sat  there  with  my  note-book  open  and  after  I  had 
covered  three  or  four  pages  I  went  back  to  words  here 
and  there  to  test  her  accuracy — I  found  that  she  really 
knew  and  was  not  trying  to  please.  There  were  some 
words  that  would  be  good  for  successors  to  the 
Yakaboo — Mahouretch — Man  o'  War  Bird;  Hourali 
— surf;  and  Toulouma — pretty  girl.  At  last  she 
turned  to  me  and  said,  "Ruh  bai  dahfedi?" — "Give  me 
a  penny  ?" — whereupon  I  produced  a  shilling.    Her  joy 


150  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

knew  no  bounds;  it  would  keep  her  in  tobacco  for  a 
month. 

That  night  we  gathered  in  one  of  the  huts  and 
swapped  yarns  to  the  best  of  our  abilities.  I  had  been 
with  the  Caribs  for  some  days  and  yet  there  was  no 
hint  at  that  familiarity  that  would  be  apt  to  come  with 
a  similar  visit  to  a  similar  settlement  of  the  natives 
of  these  islands.  One  is  very  apt  to  idealise  in  regard 
to  the  Indian,  but  I  can  say  with  absolute  certainty 
that  these  people  lived  clean  lives  and  kept  themselves 
and  their  huts  clean. 

The  huts  were  all  of  about  the  same  size,  approxi- 
mately twelve  by  fifteen  feet,  of  one  story,  and  divided 
by  a  partition  into  two  rooms  with  a  door  between, 
each  room  having  a  door  opening  outside.  One  of  the 
rooms  was  for  sleeping  solely,  while  the  other  was 
both  a  sleeping  and  living  room.  While  at  first  the 
houses  seem  very  small,  it  must  be  remembered  that 
the  cooking  was  all  done  in  separate  ajoupas,  and  that 
most  of  the  time  these  people  live  out  of  doors.  They 
merely  use  their  houses  at  night  for  sleeping  purposes 
and  as  a  shelter  from  rain. 

The  beds  were  for  the  most  part  rough  wooden 
settees,  some  with  a  tick  filled  with  grass  and  leaves  for 
a  mattress.  The  floors  were  usually  the  native  soil, 
tamped  hard  by  the  pressure  of  countless  bare  feet.  A 
few  of  the  more  prosperous  families  had  wooden  floors 
in  their  huts.  The  walls  were  of  wattles,  woven  and 
plastered  with  a  clay  that  resembled  cement,  and  the 
roofs  were  thatched  with  Guinea  grass.  There  were 
usually  two  small  square  windows  for  each  room.  An 
attempt  was  made   to   conceal  the  bareness   of  the 


THE    CARIB    BOY    OF    ST.    GEORGE  S    WHO    HAD   BEEN    BROUGHT   TO 
GRENADA  AFTER  THE  ERUPTION   OF  THE   SOUFRIERE. 


YELLOW    CARDS    AT    POINT    ESPAGNOL. 


DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE         151 

walls  inside  by  covering  them  with  old  newspapers 
plastered  on  like  wall  paper. 

It  was  in  such  a  newspapered  room  that  we  sat 
and  smoked — that  is,  as  many  of  us  as  could  comfort- 
ably squeeze  on  the  settee  or  squat  on  haunches  on  the 
floor,  the  overflow  crowding  about  the  open  door.  In 
this  particular  room  there  was  one  decoration,  a  piece 
de  resistance  that  brought  the  hut  and  its  owner  to 
even  a  higher  level  of  grandeur  than  newspapered  wall 
or  floor  of  American  lumber.  It  hung  from  the  central 
beam  just  above  headroom  and  yet  low  enough  so  that 
one  might  reach  up  and  reverentially  touch  its  smooth 
surface. 

From  the  darkened  look  of  the  inner  surface  I  could 
see  that  it  was  a  burned-out  sixteen-candle  power  elec- 
tric light  bulb.  When  far  out  to  sea  in  his  canoe,  the 
owner  had  one  day  picked  it  up  thinking  that  it  was 
some  sort  of  bottle.  When  he  saw  the  trembling  fila- 
ment inside  and  could  find  no  cork  or  opening  he  knew 
that  it  was  for  no  utilitarian  purpose  and  must  be  a 
valuable  piece  of  bric-a-brac.  It  had  probably  been 
thrown  overboard  from  some  steamer  passing  to  wind- 
ward bound  for  Barbados. 

Did  I  know  what  it  was  ?  Our  conversation  hung  on 
it  for  a  long  time.  Yes,  I  knew,  but  to  make  them 
understand  it  was  a  source  of  light — that  was  the 
trouble.  Sometimes  it  is  disastrous  to  know  too  much. 
I  explained  it  as  simply  as  I  could  and  the  Caribs 
nodded  their  heads,  but  there  was  a  doubt  in  their 
eyes  that  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  The  fact  that  the 
tiny  black  thread  inside  that  globe  should  be  the  source 


152  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

of  light  equal  to  sixteen  candles  was  utterly  beyond 
their  comprehension. 

I  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  my  portfolio  when 
a  photograph  of  my  sister  dropped  out.  The  old 
doctor  picked  it  up  and  as  she  passed  it  to  me  her  eyes 
fell  upon  it.  She  gave  a  start.  Might  she  look  at  it 
closely,  she  asked?  It  was  one  of  those  ultra  modern 
prints,  on  a  rough  mat  paper,  shadowy  and  sketchy, 
showing  depth  and  life.  The  Caribs  all  crowded 
around  to  look.  Such  a  natural  picture  they  had  never 
seen  before.  When  the  old  woman  at  last  gave  it  to 
me  she  said  of  my  sister  who  was  looking  right  at  us, 
"We  see  she,  she  no  see  we,"  which  struck  me  as  a  bit 
uncanny. 

I  was  loafing  through  my  last  afternoon  in  the 
village.  Wandering  around  the  huts  in  the  grove,  I 
stopped  at  an  ajoupa,  where  one  of  the  women  was 
baking  something  on  the  hot  surface  of  a  sheet  of 
iron.  It  somehow  reminded  me  of  the  thin  pancake 
bread  that  the  people  of  Cairo  bake  on  the  surface  of 
a  kettle  upturned  over  a  hot  dung  fire.  I  sat  down  to 
watch  her  bake  and  lit  my  pipe.  I  was  a  queer  man, 
she  said,  to  sit  down  in  this  humble  ajoupa  just  to 
watch  her  bake  cassava  cakes.  "No  Englis  do  dat," 
she  added.  I  had,  of  course,  eaten  the  cassava  before 
and  on  my  way  up  through  the  Grenadines  I  had  seen 
the  negro  women  raking  the  coarse  flour  back  and  forth 
in  a  shallow  dish  over  a  bed  of  hot  coals,  but  I  waited 
till  I  was  in  the  Carib  country  before  I  should  see  the 
mysteries,  if  there  were  any,  of  the  making  of  cassava 
cakes. 

The  cassava  is  a  root,  Manihot  utilissima,  which 


DAYS  WITH  A  VANISHING  RACE         153 

grows  very  much  like  our  potato  and  may  weigh  as 
much  as  twenty-five  or  thirty  pounds.  Ordinarily,  it  is 
dug  up  when  it  is  about  the  size  of  a  large  beet.  In 
the  raw  state  it  is  highly  poisonous,  the  juice  contain- 
ing hydrocyanic  acid.  The  root  is  cleaned  by  scraping 
it  with  a  knife,  then  it  is  sliced  and  grated.  The  grating 
is  done  on  a  board  with  pieces  of  tin  nailed  to  it.  The 
tin  has  previously  been  perforated  so  that  the  upper 
surface  is  roughened  like  the  outside  of  a  nutmeg 
grater.  This  coarse  flour  is  then  heated  over  a  hot 
charcoal  fire.  In  this  way  the  hydrocyanic  acid  is 
dissipated  by  the  heat — a  sort  of  wooden  hoe  or  rake 
being  used  to  keep  the  flour  from  burning. 

The  woman  in  the  ajoupa  had  built  a  hot  fire 
between  three  stones  on  which  was  placed  a  flat  iron 
plate  about  two  feet  in  diameter.  In  the  old  days  a  flat 
stone  was  used.  She  prepared  the  flour  by  adding 
just  enough  water  to  make  it  slightly  moist.  On  the 
hot  plate  she  laid  a  circular  iron  band  about  eighteen 
inches  in  diameter — the  hoop  off  some  old  water  cask — 
and  inside  this  she  spread  the  cassava  meal  to  the 
thickness  of  a  quarter  of  an  inch.  She  then  removed 
the  hoop  and  levelled  the  cassava  with  the  straight 
edge  of  a  flat  stick. 

The  cake  baked  very  quickly  and  when  it  was  done 
enough  to  hang  together  she  turned  it  with  a  flat 
wooden  paddle  three  inches  wide  in  the  blade  and 
about  eighteen  inches  long.  As  soon  as  a  cake  was 
done  she  carried  it  outside  and  hung  it  to  cool  and 
dry  on  a  light  pole  supported  by  two  forked  uprights. 
From  a  distance  the  cassava  cakes  looked  like  a  lot 
of  large  doilies  drying  in  the  sun. 


154  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

In  the  evening,  when  Batiste  came  from  his  fishing, 
I  told  him  that  I  was  ready  to  go  back  to  Chateau 
Belaire.  There  may  have  been  much  more  for  me  to 
observe  among  these  people — the  life  was  easy  and  I 
had  never  before  had  a  more  fascinating  view  from 
the  door  of  my  tent.  But  there  was  the  call  of  the 
channel,  I  must  have  my  try  at  it  and  it  had  been  many 
days  since  I  had  sailed  the  Yakaboo.  So  we  had  our 
last  palaver  that  evening  around  the  glow  of  the  coal- 
pot  and  the  gommier  flambeau. 

The  old  wrinkled  sea  egg  doctor  insisted  upon 
hovering  over  my  coal-pot  the  next  morning,  while  I 
broke  camp  and  packed  my  duffle.  Her  presence  had 
given  my  parting  food  a  genuine  Carib  blessing.  By 
sun-up  I  bade  them  all  good-bye  and  with  Batiste 
and  his  men  before  me — my  house  and  its  goods  bal- 
anced on  their  heads — I  left  the  village.  At  a  sharp 
bend,  where  the  road  curves  in  by  "Bloody  Bridge,"  I 
turned  and  had  my  last  peep  at  the  Carib  huts. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING JOSEPHINE   IN 

SAINT   LUCIA 

THE  next  morning,  March  30th,  found  me  once 
more  in  the  Yakaboo  rowing  out  of  the  bay  of 
Chateau  Belaire  half  an  hour  after  sunrise.  The 
night  had  been  an  anxious  one  on  the  morgue-suggesting 
cot  of  the  rest  room  in  the  police  station — for  the 
devilish  impish  gusts  had  swept  down  one  after  the 
other  from  the  Soufriere  and  shaken  that  house  till  I 
thought  it  would  blow  over  like  a  paper  box  and  go 
sailing  out  into  the  bay.  If  those  fellows  caught  us 
in  the  channel  what  would  the  poor  Yakaboo  do? 

I  argued  that  the  wind  coming  down  the  smooth 
plane  of  the  mountain  slope  and  shooting  out  across 
the  water  had  developed  a  velocity  far  greater  than 
anything  I  should  meet  in  the  channel.  Perhaps  so — 
but  I  should  learn  a  bit  about  it  later.  I  somehow 
bamboozled  my  mind  into  quiescence  and  at  last  fell 
asleep.  Almost  immediately  the  big,  burly  Barbadian 
awoke  me.  In  an  hour  and  a  half  I  had  rowed  the 
six  and  a  half  miles  to  Point  DeVolet,  where  I  set  sail. 

I  was  now  started  on  my  first  long  channel  run  and 
it  was  with  considerable  interest  if  not  anxiety  that  I 
watched  the  canoe  and  the  seas.  I  had  a  lurking 
suspicion  that  I  had  made  a  grievous  error  when  I 

155 


156  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

had  designed  the  Yakaboo;  I  had  perhaps  erred  on  the 
side  of  safety  and  had  given  her  a  too  powerful  mid- 
ship section  in  proportion  to  her  ends.  That  was  the 
feeling  I  had  while  sailing  in  the  channels  of  the 
Grenadines.  I  was  still  travelling  eastward  as  well  as 
northward,  and  I  knew  that  it  would  only  be  by  the 
most  careful  windward  work  that  I  should  be  able  to 
fetch  the  Pitons,  thirty-one  miles  away.  The  wind 
on  this  day  was  the  same  trade  that  I  had  met  with 
lower  down,  but  the  seas  were  longer  than  those  of  the 
Grenadines,  and,  if  not  so  choppy,  were  more  vicious 
when  they  broke;  there  would  be  less  current  to  carry 
me  to  leeward. 

I  had  scarcely  got  her  under  way  and  was  still  under 
the  lee  of  the  land  when  the  first  sea  came,  like  the 
hoary  hand  of  Neptune  himself  and  we  turned  to  meet 
it.  Aft  I  slid,  she  lifted  her  bow — just  enough — and 
the  sea  broke  under  us — and  we  dropped  down  its 
steep  back,  with  lighter  hearts.  In  with  the  mainsheet 
and  we  were  off  again,  the  canoe  tearing  along  like  a 
scared  cotton-tail — a  little  white  bunch  under  her 
stern.  There  was  something  worth  while  in  this  and 
I  kept  my  eyes  to  weather  for  the  next  sea.  Again  we 
met  it  and  came  through  triumphant.  Perhaps  I  had 
not  erred  after  all.    Another  sprint  and  so  on. 

After  a  while  the  Yakaboo  seemed  to  lag  a  little 
and  hang  her  head  like  a  tired  pony.  It  was  the 
forward  compartment  that  was  leaking  again  and  I  ran 
her  into  the  wind,  dropping  the  jib  and  mainsail.  The 
little  mizzen  aft,  flat  as  a  board,  held  her  directly 
into  the  wind's  eye  (which  I  believe  is  the  best  position 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING       157 

for  a  very  small  craft  hove-to),  and  I  could  go  about 
sponging  out  the  compartment. 

I  had,  of  course,  to  keep  a  sharp  lookout  ahead  for 
breaking  seas.  If  a  sea  threatened,  I  would  hastily 
clap  on  the  forehatch  and  give  the  screws  a  couple  of 
turns  and  then  roll  back  on  my  haunches  into  the  after 
end  of  the  cockpit.  My  precious  camera  was  lashed 
half  way  up  the  mizzen  mast.  Lightened  of  the  water 
in  her  forehold  I  would  hoist  the  mainsail  and  jib 
and  give  her  rein,  that  is,  trim  her  sheets  for  another 
scamper  to  windward.    She  was  the  spirited  pony  again. 

That  we  were  travelling,  well  there  could  be  no 
doubt.  The  wind  was  blowing  at  least  twenty  miles 
an  hour  and  the  canoe  was  covering  her  length  with 
the  smooth  action  of  a  thoroughbred.  Yet  when  I 
looked  astern  after  the  first  hour  it  seemed  as  though 
we  were  still  under  the  shadow  of  Saint  Vincent. 
I  knew  later  that  we  had  made  five  miles.  It  was 
discouraging  to  look  backwards,  and  I  did  very  little 
of  it  in  my  runs  afterwards.  I  would  wait  till  the 
greyish  blue  of  the  island  ahead  had  turned  to  blue  and 
was  shading  into  green  and  then  I  would  look  back  to 
the  island  that  I  had  just  left  and  I  would  estimate 
that  I  was  perhaps  half  way  across  the  channel.  Having 
assured  myself  that  I  really  was  half  way  across,  I 
kept  my  eyes  over  the  bow,  noting  the  minute  changes 
of  the  land  ahead.  But  I  am  not  yet  half  way  across 
this  channel. 

Soon  my  eye  began  to  focus  on  a  persistent  whitecap 
that  my  brain  refused  to  believe  was  a  sail.  But  the 
eye  insisted  and  the  brain  had  to  give  in  when  the 
speck  refused  to  move — it  was  always  there,  just  to  lee- 


158  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

ward  of  the  Pitons — and  it  grew  into  a  definite  shape. 
Its  course  must  almost  cross  mine,  for  as  it  grew 
larger  and  larger,  it  edged  to  windward  closing  in  on 
the  Pitons  and  was  at  last  directly  on  my  course. 
Nearer  it  came  till  I  could  make  out  the  figure  of  a 
man  poised  erect  out  over  the  water.  Another  second 
and  I  could  see  the  line  to  which  he  was  holding  and 
which  ran  to  the  top  of  the  mast.  His  feet  were  on 
the  gunwale.  Then  I  distinguished  several  forms  aft 
of  him  in  the  canoe,  all  leaning  far  out  to  windward 
to  see  what  strange  bird  the  Yakaboo  might  be,  coming 
up  out  of  the  south. 

The  news  of  my  coming  had  not  jumped  the  channel 
ahead  of  me,  but  these  fellows  had  recognised  my 
rig  from  afar  as  a  rarity — something  to  investigate.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  picture  of  them  rushing  by. 
They  might  have  been  Caribs  of  old  descending,  like 
the  Vikings  that  they  were,  on  some  island  to  be  con- 
quered. They  came  down  the  wind  with  terrific  speed, 
the  water  foaming  white  under  them,  a  third  of  the 
keel  showing,  the  glistening  forefoot  leaving  a  train 
of  drops  like  a  porpoise  clearing  the  water. 

For  an  instant  my  eye  held  it;  the  man  poised  over 
the  sea ;  the  figures  in  the  boat,  bronze  and  ebony,  tense 
with  excitement;  the  white,  sun-bleached  sails,  now 
outlined  against  a  blue  sky  and  now  thrown  against 
an  indigo  sea,  rivalling  the  brilliant  snowy  clbuds  above. 
As  they  shot  by,  close  abeam,  their  arms  shot  up  and 
they  gave  me  a  mighty  yell  while  I  waved  my  hat  and 
shouted  back  at  them.  If  this  sight  of  a  single  canoe 
coming  down  the  wind  thrilled  the  hairs  along  my 
spine  into  an  upright  position,  what  would  my  feeling 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING       159 

have  been  to  see  a  whole  fleet  of  them  as  in  the  old 
days?  I  would  not  look  back — I  wanted  the  memory 
of  that  passing  to  remain  as  it  was  and  I  sailed  on, 
thinking  for  some  time  of  each  detail  as  it  was  indel- 
ibly impressed  upon  my  mind. 

Like  most  of  us,  who  are  blessed  with  a  lean  body, 
I  also  have  that  blessing  which  usually  goes  with  it — 
an  appetite  which  is  entirely  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  size  of  that  lean  body.  Nervous  energy  as  well  as 
manual  labour  requires  food  and  when  I  made  my 
channel  runs  there  was  an  expenditure  of  both — and  I 
needed  feeding.  I  always  had  food  handy  in  my 
cockpit. 

My  mainstay  was  the  jelly  coconut  or  water-nut 
as  they  call  it.  This  is  the  coconut  that  has  not  yet 
reached  the  stage  where  the  meat  is  the  hard,  white 
substance  which  we  meet  in  the  kitchen  pantry  in  the 
shredded  form,  but  is  still  in  the  baby  stage  when 
the  meat  is  soft  and  jelly-like.  In  this  stage  the  milk 
is  not  so  rich  as  later  on,  but  is  a  sort  of  sweet  coco- 
tasting  water.  I  never  wanted  for  a  supply  of  coco- 
nuts. 

The  natives  along  shore  invariably  saw  to  it  that 
there  were  four  or  five  of  them  in  my  cockpit,  prepared 
for  instant  use  in  the  following  manner:  the  native 
balances  the  nut  on  the  palm  of  the  left  hand,  while 
with  a  cutlass  (not  called  machete  in  these  islands 
that  have  not  known  the  Spaniard,  except  as  a  pirate), 
he  cuts  through  the  hard,  smooth  surface  of  the  husk 
and  trims  the  pulpy  mass,  where  the  stem  joins  the 
nut,  into  a  point.  At  any  time,  then,  with  a  single 
slice  of  my  knife,  I  could  lop  off  this  pulpy  point  and 


160  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

cut  through  the  soft  stem  end  of  the  inner  shell,  making 
a  small  hole  through  which  I  could  drink  the  water. 

When  first  it  passes  over  your  tongue,  jaded  by  the 
civilised  drinks  which  have  a  tang  to  them,  your  judg- 
ment will  be,  "Insipid!"  Go  out  into  the  open  and 
leave  ice  water  a  week  behind  you  and  your  tongue  will 
recover  some  of  its  precivilised  sensitiveness.  You  will 
swear  that  there  is  nothing  so  cool  nor  delicious  as  the 
water  of  the  jelly  coconut.  After  the  water  has  been 
drunk  there  is  yet  the  jelly  to  be  eaten.  First  a  slice 
of  the  husk  is  cut  off  to  be  used  as  a  spoon.  Then, 
using  my  knife  as  a  wedge  and  my  axe  as  a  driver,  I 
split  open  the  nut  and  scooped  out  the  jelly  from  the 
halves. 

When  my  supply  of  pilot  bread  ran  out  I  carried 
soda  crackers  and  sometimes  the  unleavened  bread  of 
the  natives.  Raw  peameal  sausage  helped  out  at  times 
and  there  was,  of  course,  the  chocolate  of  which  I 
have  spoken  before.  I  also  carried  other  tropical 
fruits  besides  coconuts,  mangoes,  bananas,  pineapples, 
but  I  never  ate  more  than  one  sort  on  a  run.  The  coco- 
nut was  my  mainstay,  however,  and  that  with  a  little 
bread  and  a  piece  of  chocolate  would  make  an  excellent 
stop-gap  till  I  could  reach  shore  and  cook  a  substantial 
evening  meal. 

I  was  now  half  way  across  the  channel,  I  judged,  for 
neither  island  had  the  advantage  of  nearness  nor 
distance.  After  a  while  Vieux  Fort  began  to  work 
its  way  to  windward  of  me  and  the  canoe  was  still 
hanging  bravely  on  to  the  Pitons.  She  was  doing 
excellent  work  to  windward,  creeping  up  the  long 
hollows  in  pilot's  luffs  as  is  the  habit  of  this  rudderless 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      161 

craft.  The  sum  total  of  these  small  distances  eaten  to 
windward  a  little  more  than  made  up  for  what  we  lost 
when  we  lay-to  for  a  combing  sea.  Saint  Lucia  had 
long  since  changed  from  a  misty  grey  to  blue  grey,  and 
then  slowly  the  green  of  the  vegetation  began  to  assert 
itself  in  varying  shades  as  patches  of  cultivation  became 
defined.  Dun-coloured  spots  on  the  hillsides  took  the 
shapes  of  native  huts.  It  was  like  the  very  slow  devel- 
opment of  a  huge  photographic  plate. 

When  within  a  few  miles  of  the  island  the  wind 
began  to  draw  to  the  south'ard,  and  as  I  eased  the 
sheets  of  the  canoe,  she  quickened  her  pace  like  a 
horse  headed  for  home.  The  plate  was  developing 
rapidly — I  could  make  out  the  trees  on  the  mountain 
ridges  and  the  beaches  along  shore.  Vieux  Fort  was 
on  our  beam,  the  Pitons  towered  over  us;  then  with 
the  hum  of  tarred  rigging  in  a  gale,  the  center-board 
of  the  Yakaboo  crooned  its  parting  song  to  the  channel 
and  we  lost  our  motion  in  the  glassy  calm  of  Soufriere 
Bay.    We  had  completed  our  first  long  jump. 

High  above  me  the  projectile  form  of  the  Petit  Piton 
tore  an  occasional  wraith  from  the  low-flying  trade 
clouds.  Inset  in  its  steep  side,  some  twenty  feet  above 
where  I  was  now  rowing,  was  a  niched  shrine  to  the 
Virgin  Mary,  to  whom  many  a  hasty  prayer  had  been 
uttered  during  the  fervour  of  bare  deliverance  from 
the  rafales  (squalls)  of  the  channel,  prayers  probably 
quickly  forgotten  in  these  calm  waters  under  the  ritons 
and  the  memory  of  them  soon  washed  away  in  the  little 
rum  shops  of  the  coast  town,  which  gets  its  name  from 
the  Soufriere  in  the  hills  above  it  and  gives  that  name 
to  the  bay  before  it.    By  this  sign  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 


162  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

I  was  leaving  for  a  time  the  Protestant  faith  of  the 
outer  Antilles  and  entering  the  Catholic.  In  a  measure, 
I  was  leaving  the  English  for  the  French,  for  although 
Saint  Lucia  has  been  in  the  possession  of  the  English 
since  1803,  there  still  remains  the  old  Creole  atmos- 
phere of  the  French  regime. 

As  I  swung  around  the  base  of  the  smaller  Piton, 
the  levelling  rays  of  the  late  afternoon  sun  caught  the 
distant  walls  of  wooden  houses  weatherworn  to  a 
silky  sheen.  The  dull  red  of  a  tiled  roof  here  and 
there,  the  sharp  white  of  what  I  soon  learned  were  the 
police  buildings,  broke  the  drab  monotone  of  the  town. 
A  little  coasting  steamer  backed  out,  crab-like,  from 
a  cane-laden  jetty  and  as  we  passed  in  the  bay,  three 
white  cotton  tufts  from  her  whistle  tooted  my  first 
welcome  to  Saint  Lucia. 

I  had  planned  to  show  my  papers  to  the  police  at 
Soufriere  and  then  to  pitch  my  tent  on  some  sandy 
beach  beyond  a  point  that  interested  me  just  north  of 
the  town.  I  should  then  have  a  good  start  for  my  row 
along  the  lee  coast  on  the  next  day  and  I  should  soon  be 
channel  running  again — to  Martinique  and  the  Empress 
Josephine — I  had  an  especial  interest  in  her. 

But  one  never  knows.  It  happened  at  Carriacou 
and  it  is  apt  to  happen  at  any  time.  The  perverse  imp, 
whatever  his  name  may  be,  thrives  on  the  upsetting 
of  plans.  I  had  no  sooner  crawled  up  on  the  jetty 
of  Soufriere  and  stretched  my  legs  when  a  black  limb 
of  the  law  confronted  me. 

"Dis  no  port  ob  entry,"  he  said;  "you  mus'  go  to 
Castries.,, 

Castries  was  sixteen  miles  farther  along  the  coast 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      163 

and  I  had  already  travelled  forty-two  miles  since  sun- 
up. I  looked  at  my  watch  and  the  hands  showed  four- 
thirty.  I  looked  out  over  the  sea  and  saw  the  sun, 
like  an  impatient  boy  rushing  through  his  chores,  racing 
for  his  bath  in  the  horizon,  a  huge  molten  drop,  trick- 
ling down  the  inverted  bowl  of  the  firmament.  If  I 
now  took  to  my  canoe  again  and  slept  on  the  beach 
somewhere  up  the  shore,  I  should  get  into  trouble  at 
Castries  for  I  had  already  put  my  foot  on  shore. 

I  finally  decided  that  it  was  two  of  one  and  half  a 
dozen  of  another — two  being  the  trouble  I  should  get 
into  by  staying  here  and  six  being  the  trouble  I  might 
get  into  in  the  proportionately  larger  town  of  Cas- 
tries. Confound  a  government  that  spends  thirty  cents 
for  red  tape  to  wrap  up  a  package  worth  ten ! 

Up  to  this  time,  my  coming  had  not  been  detected, 
but  with  the  increasing  agitation  of  the  policeman,  it 
dawned  upon  the  jetty  stragglers  that  something 
unusual  was  on  foot.  Some  one  noticed  the  strange 
canoe  tethered  like  a  patient  animal  to  one  of  the 
legs  of  the  jetty.  Some  one  else  noticed  that  there  was 
a  strange  person  talking  with  the  policeman.  I  was 
rapidly  being  discovered  by  a  horde  of  babbling,  ragged 
beach-loafers  and  fishermen,  who  followed  like  swarm- 
ing bees  as  we  made  our  way  to  the  police  buildings. 
The  swarm  was  effectually  barricaded  outside  as  we 
entered  the  building,  where  I  showed  my  papers  to 
Sergeant  Prout. 

In  these  islands  when  precedent  lacks,  complexity 
arises.  And  here  was  something  complex — a  man 
who  travelled  alone,  voyaging  in  the  daytime  and 
sleeping  at  night  on  whatever  beach  he  happened  to 


164  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

land.  The  sergeant  must  needs  have  advice,  so  he 
sent  for  the  leading  merchant  of  the  town  and  the 
lawyer.  The  merchant,  being  a  man  of  business,  said, 
"Ask  your  superior,"  and  the  lawyer,  being  a  man 
of  caution,  said,  "Place  the  responsibility  on  some  one 
else,"  at  which  the  sergeant  telephoned  to  His 
Majesty's  Treasurer  at  Castries.  The  reply  I  did  not 
hear.  My  canoe  was  carried  into  the  cobbled  court- 
yard of  the  police  buildings  and  my  outfit  was  locked 
up  in  a  cell  next  to  that  of  a  thief. 

"And  now,"  said  I,  "if  you  will  lend  me  a  coal-pot 
and  lock  me  up  with  my  outfit  I  shall  cook  my  supper 
and  go  to  bed."    Not  a  smile  on  the  faces  around  me. 

"But  there  is  an  hotel  in  thee  town,"  came  from  a 
voice  at  my  side,  and  not  much  higher  than  my  belt, 
"I  will  conduc'  you  there."  He  pronounced  "hotel" 
with  a  lisp  that  made  it  more  like  "hostel,"  and  called 
the  article  "thee."  I  looked  down  and  beheld  him 
who  was  to  be  my  henchman  during  my  stay  in 
Soufriere.  He  was  a  little  fellow,  black  as  the  record 
of  a  trust  magnate  and  with  a  face  that  went  with 
the  name  of  Joseph  Innocent. 

I  would  take  Sergeant  Prout's  word  for  anything 
and  his  nod  in  answer  to  my  questioning  look  was  a 
good  voucher  for  Joseph.  And  so  we  walked  out, 
Joseph  parting  the  crowd  before  me,  proudly  carrying 
my  camera  and  portfolio  while  I  followed,  a  pace  or 
two  behind,  to  observe  the  quaint  old  town.  Laid  out 
in  regular  squares,  the  houses  toed  the  line  of  the 
sidewalks  in  one  continuous  wall  from  street  to  street. 
For  the  most  part,  the  walls  were  bare  of  paint,  or  if 
paint   had   ever   been  used,   it  had  long  since  been 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      165 

crumbled  by  the  sun  and  washed  away  by  the  rain. 
To  relieve  the  dead  geometric  regularity,  picturesque 
grilled  balconies  overhung  the  sidewalks,  giving  proof 
that  at  some  time  there  had  been  life  in  the  streets 
worth  observing. 

We  passed  the  open  square  of  the  market  with  the 
bare,  sun-heated  church  at  the  far  end,  facing  the  west, 
as  though  its  memories  lay  forever  behind  it.  Joseph 
stopped  at  one  of  the  myriad  doors  in  the  walls  of 
houses.  Would  I  ever  be  able  to  find  this  door  again? 
— and  I  stepped  from  the  street  into  the  cool  dark 
salle  a  manger  of  this  West  Indian  hotel.  The  mula- 
tresse,  who  received  me,  was  of  a  better  looking  type, 
I  thought,  than  the  Creole  negress  of  the  English  islands. 
"Could  I  have  food  and  room  for  the  night  ?" 

"Mais  oui,"  for  in  spite  of  my  shifty  appearance  my 
camera  and  portfolio  were  badges  of  respectability 
and  vouched  for  me.  I  despatched  Joseph  for  some 
cigarettes  and  while  awaiting  his  return  I  noticed  that 
the  mulatresse  was  setting  places  for  two.  I  was  to 
have  company — a  comforting  thought  when  I  could 
not  be  alone  on  the  beach.  I  am  never  so  lonesome  as 
when  eating  alone,  where  there  are  people  about.  On 
the  beach  I  should  have  had  the  company  of  the 
setting  sun,  the  tropical  starlit  night,  and  the  murmur 
of  the  little  rippling  surf  on  the  smooth  sands — but 
here!  the  shuffling  of  the  silent  negress  as  she  placed 
the  food  before  me  would  have  been  loneliness  itself. 

When  Joseph  came  with  the  tin  of  cigarettes,  I 
offered  him  a  "thrupence,"  for  he  had  served  me  well. 
But  he  was  a  diplomat  from  his  wide-spreading  toes 
to  his  apish  face.    There  is  a  patois  saying,  "Zo  quite 


166  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

yone  boude  plein  fait  zo  sote," — "Don't  let  a  bellyful 
fool  you." 

uNo!  You  give  me  de  two  copper,"  indicating  the 
coins  in  my  hand,  "for  you  need  de  silver  for  other 
person."  He  was  an  artist,  I  learned  later,  and  cared 
little  for  money — but  would  I  get  him  some  paints 
and  brushes  when  I  reached  Castries? 

The  mulatresse  had  scarcely  announced,  "Monsieur 
est  servi,"  when  the  other  guest  entered.  He  was  an 
Englishman — of  the  island — spare  and  well-groomed, 
as  one  generally  finds  them,  a  government  engineer  on 
his  monthly  tour  inspecting  the  telephone  system,  which 
girdles  the  island.  While  we  ate  our  thon  (tuna)  our 
conversation  turned  on  the  tuna  fisheries  of  Martinique 
and  I  mentioned  Josephine  and  Trois-Ilets. 

"Josephine!  Martinique!  Why  man  alive!  Jo- 
sephine spent  part  of  her  childhood  days  right  here  in 
Soufriere  and  I  don't  know  but  what  she  was  born 
on  this  island — in  the  northern  part — at  Morne  Paix- 
Bouche." 

And  so  it  happened  that  I  was  to  be  denied  the  beach 
to  stumble  upon  a  page  or  two  of  that  life  of  contrasts 
— pathetic  and  romantic — of  the  Empress  Josephine. 
Over  our  coffee  and  cigarettes  my  friend  told  me  of 
Pere  Remaud  of  the  parish  of  Gros-Islet  in  the  north 
of  Saint  Lucia — the  man  who  knew  more  about 
Josephine's  life  in  this  island  than  any  one  else.  I 
decided,  then,  to  spend  some  time  in  Saint  Lucia  and 
I  learned  many  things  about  her — but  who  wants  to 
read  dry  history  sandwiched  in  between  salty  channel 
runs?     Our  conversation  turned  to  other  things  and 


I 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      167 

then  died  out  even  as  the  glow  of  our  cigarettes.  We 
were  both  tired  and  mutually  glad  to  turn  in. 

But  the  wakening  effect  of  the  coffee  and  the  cold 
funereal  sheets  of  the  high  antique  four-poster  onto 
which  I  had  climbed  to  rest,  kept  off  slumber  for  a 
while.  What  a  cruise  of  contrasts  it  was — from  the 
primitive  life  of  the  Carib  living  on  fish  and  cassava, 
I  had  sailed  in  a  day  from  the  fifteenth  century  into 
the  eighteenth.  From  my  roll  of  blankets  on  the 
high  ground  of  Point  Espagnol  I  had  come  to  the  more 
civilised,  but  not  more  comfortable,  husk  mattress  of 
the  French  regime.  I  was  not  long  in  deciding  that 
the  husk  mattress  was  no  less  aged  than  the  four- 
poster.  Perhaps  the  friends  of  Josephine  had  slept 
in  this  bed,  on  this  very  mattress — whatever  their 
sins  may  have  been  may  this  have  shriven  them !  Sad- 
ness entered  my  mood  and  I  fell  asleep. 

Can  the  lover  of  small  indulgences  begin  the  day 
better  than  I  began  my  first  morning  in  Saint  Lucia? 
At  six  there  was  a  knock  at  my  door,  followed  by  the 
entrance  of  the  mulatresse  bearing  a  huge  basin  of 
cold  water  with  a  calabash  floating  on  its  surface,  the 
simplest  and  yet  the  most  delightful  bath  I  have  known. 
Scarcely  had  I  slipped  on  my  clothes — the  mulatresse 
must  have  known  by  the  sounds  the  progress  of  my 
toilet — when  another  knock  ushered  in  a  small  pot  of 
steaming  Liberian  coffee  such  as  only  they  of  the 
French  islands  can  grow  and  brew.  There  is  but 
one  sequence  to  this — a  cigarette.  This,  then,  was 
my  formula,  after  which  I  stepped  out  onto  the  street 
where  Joseph  was  waiting  for  me. 

Not  far  from  the  town,  up  in  the  hills,  lies  Ventine, 


168  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

the  beauty  spot  of  Saint  Lucia.  This  is  the  safety  valve, 
a  sort  of  Hell's  Half  Acre,  that  saved  Saint  Lucia 
during  the  eruptions  of  Saint  Vincent  and  Martinique. 
As  the  well-kept  road  wound  upward,  lined  with 
orderly  fields  and  occasional  clumps  of  trees,  I  could 
easily  imagine  myself  to  be  in  southern  Europe,  for 
the  morning  was  still  cool  and  the  road  free  except  for 
an  infrequent  figure  shuffling  along  at  its  ease  with 
its  burden  balanced  on  top.  It  was  pleasant  to  hear 
the  prattle  of  Joseph  with  its  French  construction  of 
the  English  and  that  soft  inflection,  which  we  lack  so 
much  in  our  own  harsh  language. 

"Look!  you  see  that  bird  there?  Eet  ees  call  the 
cuckoo  mayoque  by  the  Creole.  They  say  that  God, 
w'en  he  was  building  the  world  (but  I  don'  beleeve  it) , 
ask  the  cuckoo  to  carry  stone  to  the  stream.  But  the 
cuckoo  would  not  do  it  because  it  would  soil  his  beauti- 
ful fethaire.  Then  God  say,  'For  that  you  shall  never 
drink  from  the  stream  an'  eef  you  do  you  will  drown.' 
An'  now  the  cuckoo  can  only  get  water  from  the  flowers 
and  leaves." 

A  little  farther  on,  he  darted  to  the  side  of  the  road 
and  brought  back  a  leaf  of  the  silver  fern.  He  told  me 
to  hold  out  my  hand — "no,  wiz  zee  back  upwards." 
Placing  the  leaf  on  the  brown  skin  he  gave  it  a  slap  and 
the  leaf  slipped  off  leaving  the  delicate  tracery  of  its 
form  in  a  silver  powder.  And  so  it  was  on  that  delight- 
ful walk,  I  came  to  like  the  little  native,  bright  and  full 
of  spirit.  Some  day  he  may,  as  a  regular  duty,  open 
my  door  in  the  morning  and  say,  "Will  you  have  your 
coffee  now,  sir,  or  w'en  you  arize?" 

We  finally  arrived  at  the  Ventine,  which  is  the  thin- 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING       169 

crusted  floor  of  an  ancient  crater.  The  sulphur  smell 
that  greeted  me  brought  back  memories  of  Yellowstone 
Park.  From  Southern  Europe  I  had  been  whisked  back 
to  the  States.  And  to  carry  the  illusion  still  further 
I  found  there  three  Americans,  Foster,  Green  and 
Smith  (good  plain  Yankee  names  of  no  pretension), 
who  were  working  the  sulphur  of  the  crater.  We  fell 
on  each  other's  necks,  so  to  speak. 

One  needed  a  guide  and  Foster  took  me  about  on 
the  hot  floor  to  see  the  boiling  mud  pools  and  the 
steam  jets.  On  our  way  up  to  the  cottage  where  the 
men  lived  with  their  families  Foster  showed  me  the 
natural  advantages  of  living  in  a  place  like  this.  The 
region  of  the  Ventine  would  be  a  wonderful  place  of 
retirement  for  the  rheumatic  cripple.  Here  were  hot 
springs  of  temperatures  from  tepid  to  boiling,  cold 
mountain  streams  that  made  natural  shower  baths,  as 
they  tumbled  down  the  rocks,  and  pools  of  curative 
mineral  water. 

As  we  walked  along  the  path  Foster  dug  his  hands 
into  the  bank.  "When  you  want  to  wash  your  hands 
just  reach  into  the  side,  of  the  hill — here — and  haul 
out  a  lump  of  this  soft  clay  stuff.  Rub  your  hands  to- 
gether and  a  little  farther  on — here — you  have  the 
choice  of  either  hot  or  cold  water  to  wash  it  off  in. 
You  see,  my  hands  are  as  soft  as  a  baby's  skin." 

He  talked  like  an  advertisement.  They  are  planning 
to  build  a  hotel  at  the  Ventine  some  day.  If  they  do  it 
will  be  a  new  Soufriere  come  to  life  and  I  can  imagine 
no  more  delightful  resort. 

We  left  the  Ventine  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon 
and  passing  the  town  walked  out  along  the  broad 


170  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

east  road  to  the  ruins  of  the  old  French  baths,  where 
the  aristocracy  of  France,  some  of  them  exiles,  and 
some  come  to  the  island  to  recoup  their  fortunes,  were 
wont  to  take  the  cure.  There  is  but  little  now  remain- 
ing, a  few  walls,  a  tank  into  which  the  sulphur  water 
flows  from  the  mountain  stream,  and  a  massive  stone 
arch  set  in  a  thick  woods  that  takes  two  hours  from 
each  end  of  the  day  and  holds  a  gloom  like  a  shroud 
for  the  dead  past.  A  cow  was  grazing  where  grace 
once  trod  and  where  perhaps  the  little  "Yeyette"*  came 
with  her  elders.  That  evening  I  chatted  with  a  man, 
Monsieur  Devaux,  whose  grandaunt,  Mademoiselle 
Petit  L'fitang,  had  often  spoken  of  having  played  with 
the  little  Josephine,  at  the  estate  of  Malmaison  in  the 
hills  to  the  north  of  Soufriere. 

But  there  was  little  else  to  be  learned  and  the  next 
morning  I  left  for  Castries. 

Offshore,  trying  to  claw  into  the  wind  against  the 
tide,  was  a  little  sloop  which  somehow  looked  familiar. 
It  was  calm  alongshore  and  I  rowed  for  an  hour.  Then 
a  breeze  came  directly  from  the  north  and  I  made 
sail  for  beating.  As  I  neared  the  sloop  on  the  out- 
tack  she  ran  up  a  signal.  I  dropped  my  mainsail  for 
an  instant  to  let  them  know  that  I  understood,  and  ran 
in  again  on  the  other  tack.  She  was  the  Glen  Nevis 
from  Grenada  and  had  called  at  Kingstown  on  her 
way  to  Saint  Lucia  with  ice. 

When  she  followed  me  into  port  an  hour  later, 
I  found  that  my  Man  Friday  of  St.  George's  was  in 
command.  They  had  left  Kingstown  the  day  before  I 
had  left  Chateau  Belaire,  and  although  I  had  stopped 

♦Childhood  name  of  the  Empress  Josephine. 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING       171 

off  a  day  at  Soufriere,  I  beat  them  into  Castries  by  an 
hour.  In  other  words,  it  had  taken  them  seventy-two 
hours  to  cover  the  sixty  miles  from  Kingstown  to 
Castries.  My  time  for  travelling  the  same  distance 
was  twenty  hours.  This  showed  the  advantage  of  the 
canoe  as  a  vehicle  in  these  waters,  for  I  could  not 
only  sail  the  rough  channels  but  also  slip  along  under 
the  lee  of  the  islands  where  the  larger  boats  would  be 
helplessly  becalmed.  As  these  fellows  sail  they  must, 
of  necessity,  lose  valuable  ground  to  windward  by 
dropping  away  from  the  island  they  are  leaving  to 
avoid  calms  and  then  they  must  beat  their  way  up  to 
the  next  island. 

Compared  with  Grenada  and  Saint  Vincent,  the  lee 
coast  of  Saint  Lucia  is  low  and  uninteresting  except  for 
two  wonderful  harbours,  close  together,  near  the 
northern  end;  Cul-de-Sac,  the  location  of  the  Usine- 
Central  for  the  manufacture  of  sugar,  and  Castries, 
the  coaling  station  of  the  English  islands,  with  its 
Vigie,  the  lately  abandoned  Gibraltar  of  the  British 
West  Indies.*  It  was  in  the  hills  between  these  almost 
landlocked  harbours  that  Sir  John  Moore  fought  with 
the  French  and  the  Caribs  and  learned  the  real  art 
of  warfare  that  made  possible  his  marvellous  retreat 
at  Corufia. 

As  we  approached  Castries,  a  large,  white  yacht 
came  up  from  over  the  horizon  and  slipped  into  the 
harbour.  She  proved  to  be  the  Atmah — belonging  to 
Edouard  Rothschild  and  flying  the  French  flag.  She 
had  bumped  on  a  reef  south  of  Cuba  and  came  here 

*  Shortly  after  the  outbreak  of  the  present  war  in  Europe  the  Vigie 
was  fortified  with  guns  brought  over  from  Martinique  and  gar- 
risoned in   191 5  by   a  company  of   Canadian   soldiers. 


172  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

to  coal  before  going  home  to  dock.  A  Norwegian 
tramp,  probably  owned  by  an  American  company,  stole 
around  the  south  of  the  island  and  came  up  behind  me, 
a  huge  mass  of  ocean-going  utility,  and  swung  into 
port  after  the  yacht. 

An  Englishman  came  out,  relieved  of  coals  she  had 
brought  from  Cardiff,  her  rusty  sides  high  out  of  water, 
the  tips  of  her  propeller  making  a  white  haystack  under 
her  counter.  The  little  coasting  steamer,  which  had 
saluted  me  two  days  before,  bustled  out  of  her  home 
on  her  daily  run  to  Vieux  Fort. 

There  was  commerce  in  this  port — I  had  not  been 
near  a  steamer  for  two  months.  Before  sailing  into 
the  harbour,  we  made  an  inquisitive  tack  offshore  in 
order  to  have  a  peep  at  Martinique.  There  she  lay — 
a  little  to  the  westward  of  Saint  Lucia;  the  arc  was 
swinging  back  and  I  should  soon  be  in  the  Leeward 
islands.  Distinct  against  the  haze  of  Martinique  stood 
the  famous  Diamond  Rock  and  here,  only  six  miles 
off,  lay  Pigeon  Island,  lifting  its  head,  a  lion  couchant 
with  Fort  Rodney  in  its  mane. 

On  the  other  tack  we  ran  into  the  busy  harbour. 
French,  English,  and  Norwegian  flags  were  there. 
My  little  ensign,  no  larger  than  a  bandana  handker- 
chief, was  all  that  represented  the  United  States  in  this 
large  company.  But  the  Yakaboo  flitted  past  her  over- 
grown children — for  after  all  the  canoe  is  the  mother 
of  them  all — to  a  quiet  corner  that  showed  no  change 
since  the  advent  of  steam. 

I  had  decided  to  spend  some  time  in  Castries — look- 
ing into  the  past  of  a  certain  lady.  I  ought  to  make 
the  type  appear  shamefaced  as  I  write  this,  but  you 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      173 

already  know  who  the  lady  is,  or  was,  and  that  she 
has  been  dead  nearly  a  century  and  her  past  was  a 
romance.  There  comes  an  indefinable  sense  of  peace 
and  quiet  when  one  sails  into  a  secure  and  almost 
landlocked  harbour  such  as  the  carenage  of  Castries, 
but  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  only  sailing  from  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  Caribbean  to  the  uncertainties  of  a 
veritable  sea  of  hearsay  concerning  Josephine. 

For  instance,  there  was  an  old  negro  who  had  seen 
the  Empress  in  Castries  when  a  little  child.  Whether 
he  was  the  little  child,  or  she  was  the  little  child,  I  do 
not  know — perhaps  it  was  Castries  that  was  the  little 
child.  He  was  brought  to  me  one  day  as  I  stood  in  the 
street  chatting  with  one  of  the  merchants  of  the  town. 

"Undoubtedly  old,"  I  said  to  my  friend,  as  one 
would  comment  upon  a  piece  of  furniture.  He  seemed 
a  youth  compared  with  some  of  our  old  Southern 
darkies,  shrivelled  and  cotton-tufted. 

"Quel  age?"  I  yelled  at  him,  for  he  was  somewhat 
deaf. 

"Cent  onze  e}  sep'  s'mains,"  came  the  answer.  One 
hundred  and  eleven  years  and  seven  weeks !  If  I  had 
not  caught  him  unawares  he  might  have  given  the 
days  and  hours. 

But  his  age  was  not  so  remarkable  as  his  memory. 
He  remembered  having  seen  Josephine  on  the  streets 
and  especially  at  the  time  when  she  left  Saint  Lucia  for 
Martinique  on  her  way  to  France  to  marry  Beauhar- 
nais.  There  was  no  doubting  that  honest  old  face  and 
there  was  nothing  but  admiration  for  a  memory  that 
reached  back  not  only  to  youth  and  childhood,  but 
even  to  prenatal  existence.     He  was  born  two  years 


174  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

after  Josephine  had  paid  her  last  visit  to  these  islands ! 
I  took  his  photograph  and  paid  him  a  shilling,  which 
shows  that  a  wonderful  memory  is  nothing  if  not  a 
commercial  asset. 

My  papers  from  St.  George's,  which  had  been 
vised  from  port  to  port  would  serve  me  no  longer 
since  I  was  now  leaving  for  Martinique,  which  was 
French.  One  morning  I  walked  into  the  office  of  the 
French  consul,  who,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  suspiciously 
suave  and  gracious.  The  idea  of  travelling  about  in  a 
boat  of  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  ton  was  very  amusing. 
He  filled  in  the  blanks  of  an  impressive  document, 
which  I  stuck  in  my  pocket.  When  I  asked  the  amount 
of  the  fee  he  said,  "Twenty  francs."  "Whew!"  I 
muttered  to  myself,  "no  wonder  he  was  so  blasted 
polite." 

Out  past  the  Vigie  and  I  was  happy  again.  One  is 
always  glad  to  run  into  port,  but  the  voyager  is  doubly 
glad  to  leave  it  again.  There  are  countless  petty  annoy- 
ances on  shore  that  one  never  meets  on  the  broad  seas. 
I  often  worry  about  the  weather,  but  most  of  that 
worry  is  done  when  I  am  ashore.  As  soon  as  I  stepped 
into  the  canoe  that  morning  I  felt  that  I  was  leaving 
my  small  troubles  on  the  stone  quay,  whimpering  like 
a  pack  of  forlorn  dogs.  I  should  lose  sight  of  them 
and  the  quay  as  soon  as  I  rounded  the  Vigie. 

After  sailing  through  two  rain  squalls  and  making 
an  investigating  tack  under  Pigeon  Island,  I  headed 
for  the  beach  of  the  village  of  Gros-Islet,  for  I  had 
business  there.  I  wanted  to  see  Pere  Remaud  and 
examine  some  of  the  parish  signatures.  As  I  beached 
the  canoe,  Henry  Belmar,  a  fine  young  colonial  Eng- 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      175 

lishman,  came  through  the  crowd  of  natives  to  meet 
me.  He  was  riding  through  Gros-Islet  on  govern- 
mental duties,  had  seen  me  in  the  bay,  and  had  ordered 
food  at  one  of  the  houses  in  the  town.  The  thoughtful 
hospitality  of  the  colonial  Englishman  has  often  made 
me  think  upon  the  manner  in  which  we  too  often  treat 
the  stranger  who  comes  to  our  shores.  If  he  is  outre, 
we  lionize  him  and  the  women  make  a  freak  of  him. 
If  he  is  of  our  own  kind,  we  let  him  shift  for  himself. 
We  drank  our  febrifuge  with  the  usual  "chin-chin," 
and  after  luncheon  set  out  for  the  house  of  Pere 
Remaud. 

The  priest  was  a  young  man,  full  of  strength  and 
vigour,  much,  I  thought,  as  Pere  Labat  would  have  been 
had  we  known  him  in  our  age.  Pere  Remaud  was 
interested  in  the  things  of  the  world.  He  lived  for 
his  parish,  read,  shot  ramiers  (pigeons),  and  could 
talk  intimately  on  the  politics  of  my  own  country. 
While  I  had  been  eating  with  Belmar,  the  priest  had 
been  down  to  the  beach  to  see  my  canoe  and  at  the 
moment  when  we  arrived  he  was  hastily  turning  the 
leaves  of  a  French  sporting  catalogue  to  see  whether 
he  might  discover  to  just  what  species  the  Yakaboo 
belonged — much  as  he  would  attempt  to  classify  a 
strange  flower  which  he  had  found  in  the  hills  of  his 
parish. 

I  spent  the  afternoon  with  him,  looking  over  the 
old  parish  records.  But  for  the  faded  paper  on  which 
they  stood  out  in  bold  lines,  the  letters  and  signatures 
might  have  been  written  yesterday.  There  was  the 
signature  of  Louis  Raphael  Martin,  a  planter  of  Saint 
Lucia,  who  had  known  Josephine  here  and  had  been 


176  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

received  by  her  at  Malmaison  in  France.  There  was 
that  of  Auguste  Hosten  under  the  date  of  1810,  who, 
Frederic  Masson  says,  loaned  a  large  sum  of  money  to 
Josephine  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  when  the 
guillotine  had  taken  her  first  husband  and  before  she 
met  Napoleon. 

We  talked,  and  I  made  many  notes  during  the  long 
afternoon  till  at  last  the  yellow  sunshine  gave  warning 
that  I  must  leave.  Pere  Remaud  came  down  to  the 
beach  with  me  and  as  we  heeled  to  the  evening  breeze 
I  heard  his  last  "Bon  voyage"  above  the  babble  of  the 
natives. 

The  same  puff  that  carried  the  last  adieux  of  Pere 
Remaud  helped  us  across  the  white  sandy  floor  of  the 
bay  and  left  us,  close  to  the  shores  of  Pigeon  Island. 
Three  whaleboats  were  lying  on  the  beach  and  as  I 
stepped  ashore  their  crews  came  straggling  down  to 
meet  me.  I  found  that  the  man  in  command  of  the  sta- 
tion was  Napoleon  Olivier  of  Bequia,  a  brother  of  Jose 
at  Caille,  and  I  was  again  in  my  whaling  days  of  the 
Grenadines.  I  was  soon  as  far  from  Josephine  and 
Pere  Remaud  as  the  twentieth  century  is  from  the 
eighteenth — but  not  for  long.  Accompanied  by  the 
two  sons  of  Olivier,  I  climbed  to  the  famous  old  fort, 
now  called  "Rodney,"  where  that  admiral,  second  only 
to  Nelson,  watched  for  the  French  fleet  to  come  out 
of  their  hiding  in  the  bay  of  Fort  Royal  (now  Fort  de 
France) ,  thirty  miles  to  the  north,  in  Martinique.  His 
own  fleet  lay  below  him  in  the  Saint  Croix  roads,  like 
impatient  hounds  tugging  at  their  leashes,  eager  to  be 
in  chase  of  their  quarry. 

The  French  at  last  slipped  out  on  the  night  of  April 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      177 

8th,  1782,  the  news  of  their  departure  being  signalled 
to  Rodney  by  means  of  a  chain  of  English  lookout 
ships.  Rodney  was  immediately  on  their  heels  and 
on  the  1 2th  met  the  French  in  the  Dominica  channel, 
where  he  fought  the  battle  of  "The  Saints." 

The  fort  itself  is  scarcely  more  than  a  rampart  with 
a  powder  magazine  on  the  east  side  and  a  flag-staff 
stepping  in  the  center.  There  were  no  guns  left  and  the 
trees,  growing  out  of  the  pavement,  told  of  long  years 
of  disuse.  The  sun  had  dropped  below  the  ridge  of  the 
island  as  we  scrambled  down  again  through  long  rank 
grass,  waist-high,  and  through  a  small  dark  grove  of 
trees,  among  which  there  were  several  tombs  of  officers, 
their  inscriptions  still  decipherable,  the  last  narrow 
earthly  homes  of  men  who  had  died  while  stationed 
here,  not  from  the  bullets  of  the  French,  but  from 
the  insidious  attack  of  that  enemy  which  they  knew  not 
— the  mosquito. 

I  cooked  my  supper  with  the  whalemen  in  the  ruins 
of  the  old  barracks.  A  rain  tank,  still  intact  from  the 
time  of  the  occupation,  furnished  water  and  I  was  soon 
yarning  with  Olivier  over  the  bubbling  pots.  The 
.season  had  been  a  bad  one,  only  one  small  whale  had 
'been  caught.  One  of  the  best  harpooners  was  lying 
jsick  with  fever  in  Gros-Islet,  and  the  whole  outfit  was 
|in  a  state  of  black  dejection. 

Poor  Olivier !    He  was  not  only  doomed  to  lose  his 

arpooner,   for  three  years  later  when   I   sailed  my 

schooner  into  the  quiet  haven  of  Bequia  he  came  aboard 

nd,  sitting  on  the  top  step  of  the  companionway,  he 

old  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes  that  one  of  his  sons,  who 

had  taken  me  up  to  the  fort,  had  died  of  fever  shortly 


* 


178  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

after  I  had  left  Pigeon  Island.  He  had  no  photograph 
to  remember  his  son  by,  but  he  remembered  that  I  had 
taken  a  snap-shot  on  the  rampart — would  I  give  him 
a  print? 

Supper  over,  we  put  up  impromptu  tents  in  the  long, 
soft  grass  above  the  beach  where  the  boats  lay,  for 
the  ruins,  they  said,  were  full  of  fleas.  It  may  have 
been  fleas  or  it  may  have  been  superstition  that 
inhabited  the  barracks  with  jumbies.  The  tents  were 
impromptu,  old  sloop  sails  thrown  over  the  masts  of 
the  whaleboats.  One  end  of  the  masts  rested  on  the 
ground  while  the  other  was  supported  by  crossed  oars 
lashed  together  about  seven  feet  above  ground.  Had 
these  shelters  not  been  put  up  after  sunset  and 
taken  down  before  sunrise  I  might  have  had  an  interest- 
ing photograph  of  shipwrecked  mariners.  I  crawled  in 
with  Olivier,  for  it  would  save  me  the  work  of  pitching 
my  own  tent.  I  was  awakened  by  the  chilly  drizzle  of 
a  morning  squall. 

As  I  got  up  and  shook  myself  at  sunrise — that  is 
5:51  on  that  particular  day — (the  sun  did  not  rise  for 
us  until  sometime  later,  when  he  edged  above  the 
Morne  du  Cap  on  Saint  Lucia),  the  weather  did  not 
look  promising.  Had  it  been  the  fifth  day  of  the  first 
quarter  I  would  not  have  started  for  Martinique,  but 
it  was  the  fifth  of  the  second,  which  had  shown  a 
lamb-like  disposition,  and  there  were  two  days  of  it 
left — I  was  on  the  safe  side.  The  indications  werej 
for  rain  rather  than  wind  and  I  decided  to  take  the 
chance.     Olivier  was  a  bit  doubtful. 

I  cooked  my  breakfast  with  the  men  in  the  barracks, 
dragged  my  canoe   down   to   the   water's   edge   and* 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      179 

watched  the  weather.  At  eight  o'clock,  the  rain  having 
ceased,  I  bade  good-bye  to  the  whalers,  who  had 
decided  not  to  try  for  humpbacks  that  day,  and  was  off. 
As  we  sailed  out  through  the  reefs  by  Burgot  Rocks 
the  heavy  surf  gave  warning  that  there  would  be 
plenty  of  wind  outside.  Once  clear  of  Saint  Lucia  I 
laid  my  course  for  Diamond  Rock,  a  good  six  points 
off  the  wind. 

What  a  comfort  it  was  to  ease  my  sheets  a  bit  and 
to  know  that  if  the  current  began  to  take  me  to  leeward 
I  could  make  it  up  by  working  closer  to  windward. 
Those  extra  points  were  like  a  separate  bank  account 
laid  up  for  a  rainy  day. 

The  canoe  enjoyed  this  work.  She  fairly  flew,  slid- 
ing into  the  deep  troughs  and  climbing  the  tall  seas 
in  long  diagonals.  In  half  an  hour  Saint  Lucia  behind 
me  was  completely  hidden  by  rain  clouds  and  so  was 
Martinique  ahead.  The  two  islands  seemed  to  have 
wrapped  themselves  in  their  vaporous  blankets  in  high 
dudgeon,  like  a  couple  of  Indian  bucks  who  have  failed 
to  wheedle  whisky  out  of  a  passing  tourist.  Fearful 
lest  the  weather  might  break  and  come  up  from  the 
southwest,  I  kept  a  constant  watch  on  the  procession  of 
the  trade  clouds  in  the  northeast,  ready  to  come  about 
with  the  first  weakening  of  the  wind. 

Afraid?  not  exactly — but  cautious.  The  Yakaboo 
drove  on  like  the  sturdy  little  animal  that  she  was.  We 
now  knew  each  other  so  well  that  we  did  not  even 
bother  to  head  into  the  breaking  seas,  except  the  very 
large  ones.  Some  of  them  we  could  roll  under  and 
slip  by.  Others  came  aboard  and  at  times  I  was  waist 
deep  in  water  and  foam,  sitting  on  the  deck  to  wind- 


180  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

ward,  my  feet  braced  in  the  cockpit  under  the  opposite 
coaming.  If  there  had  not  been  the  danger  of  filling 
her  sails  with  water,  I  could  have  made  the  main- 
sheet  fast  for  she  practically  sailed  herself.  Between 
deluges,  I  bailed  out  the  cockpit  with  a  calabash. 

Once  in  a  while  she  would  hang  her  head  and  then 
I  hove-to  to  bail  out  the  forward  compartment  with  a 
sponge.  The  exhilaration  of  the  Saint  Vincent  channel 
was  nothing  compared  to  this.  The  water  was  warm 
and  my  constant  ducking  was  not  unpleasant.  I  thought 
I  could  feel  a  tingle  in  the  region  of  my  pre-evolute 
gills. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  in  these  channel  runs 
where  the  trade  blew  strong,  the  force  of  the  wind 
never  seemed  to  bother  the  canoe.  Although  it  was 
usually  blowing  fully  twenty  miles  an  hour  and  often 
twenty-five,  I  was  obliged  to  reef  my  sails  but  four 
times  on  the  whole  cruise;  on  the  run  to  Dominica, 
when  the  wind  was  very  strong;  again,  under  the  lee 
of  Dominica ;  in  the  run  to  Guadeloupe,  when  the  canoe 
was  going  too  fast  in  a  following  sea,  and,  for  the  same 
reason,  on  my  run  to  Saba.  I  have  often  carried  full 
sail  when  a  large  sloop  has  been  obliged  to  reef. 

The  reason  for  this  is  that  the  wind  close  to  the 
surface  of  water,  broken  up  into  ridges  from  three  to 
eight  feet  in  height,  is  considerably  retarded  and  the 
stratum  through  which  the  low  rig  of  the  Yakaboo 
moved  was  not  travelling  at  a  rate  of  more  than 
three-fourths  the  actual  velocity  of  the  free  wind. 
Upon  approaching  land,  where  the  seas  began  to 
diminish  in  size  and  before  I  had  reached  the  influence 
of  the  down  draft  from  the  mountains,  I  could  always 


c        c        c  < 


<>•<•• 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      181 

feel  a  slight  but  definite  increase  in  the  force  of  the 
wind. 

Sailing  as  I  did — seated  only  a  few  inches  above 
the  water — I  had  an  excellent  opportunity  to  observe 
the  flying  fish  which  rose  almost  continually  from  under 
the  bow  of  the  canoe.  Although  they  were  smaller 
than  those  I  have  seen  in  the  channels  off  the  California 
coast — they  were  seldom  more  than  about  nine  inches 
long — their  flight  did  not  seem  to  be  appreciably 
shorter.  Their  speed  in  the  water  immediately  before 
they  emerge  must  be  terrific  for  they  come  out  as 
though  shot  from  a  submarine  catapult;  their  gossamer 
wings,  vibrating  from  the  translated  motion  of  the 
powerful  tail,  make  the  deception  of  flight  most  real. 

The  flight  is  in  effect  the  act  of  soaring  with  thfe 
body  at  an  angle  of  from  ten  to  fifteen  degrees  with  the 
horizontal.  The  wings  are  close  to  the  head  and  the 
lower  part  of  the  body  often  passes  through  the  crest 
of  a  wave  from  time  to  time  when  the  tail  seems  to  give 
an  impetus  to  the  decreasing  speed  of  the  flight.  This, 
however,  may  be  an  illusion,  due  to  the  dropping  away 
of  the  wave,  which  might  thus  give  the  fish  the  appear- 
ance of  rising  up  from  the  water.  I  have  spent  many 
hours  watching  these  singular  fish  and,  while  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  they  do  not  actually  fly,  it  seems 
almost  incredible  that  a  fish  can  hurl  itself  from  the 
water  with  sufficient  force  to  rise  to  a  height  of  twenty 
or  more  feet  and  soar  for  a  distance  of  from  three  to 
four  hundred  feet— perhaps  farther. 

The  land  ahead  had  shaken  off  its  cloud  blanket  and 
was  now  rapidly  defining  itself,  for  this  channel  was 
shorter  than  the  last  one  and  my  old  enemy,  the  lee 


182  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

tide,  had  been  scarcely  perceptible.  As  I  held  the 
canoe  up  for  "Diamond  Rock,"  I  again  noticed  the 
decided  veering  of  the  wind  to  the  south'ard,  and  from 
time  to  time  I  had  to  ease  off  my  sheets  till  the  canoe 
was  running  well  off  in  a  beam  sea  that  moderated  as 
I  approached  land.  The  sky,  which  had  been  well 
clouded  during  most  of  the  run,  opened  at  a  fortunate 
moment  while  I  hove-to,  stood  up  in  the  cockpit,  and 
took  a  photograph  of  the  famous  Rock.  There  was 
no  hope  of  landing  in  that  run  of  sea  and  I  had  to 
be  content  with  a  hasty  survey  of  the  Rock  as  the 
canoe  bobbed  up  and  down,  her  nose  into  the  wind. 

Were  I  writing  this  narrative  true  to  events,  I  should 
have  no  time  to  describe  the  Rock  and  relate  a  bit  of 
its  history  for  I  had  scarcely  time  to  stow  my  camera 
when  a  squall  came  chasing  down  on  my  heels.  I 
hastily  raised  the  mainsail  and  ran  "brad  aff,"  as  the 
harpooner  Bynoe  would  say,  to  get  plenty  of  sea  room. 
When  the  squall  did  catch  us,  we  hove-to  with  the  jib 
safely  stowed  and  the  mainsail  securely  lashed  so  that 
the  wind  could  not  get  its  lingers  into  it,  and  with 
the  sturdy  little  mizzen  dutifully  holding  the  canoe  into 
the  wind. 

You  shall  have  the  story  now  while  I  am  sitting  in 
the  cockpit — doing  nothing  but  watch  the  Rock  dis- 
appear in  the  mist  to  windward,  while  the  Yakaboo 
is  backing  off  gracefully  at  a  rate  of  four  miles  an 
hour. 

Diamond  Rock  rises  in  the  shape  of  a  dome  to  a 
height  of  five  hundred  and  seventy  feet,  a  mile  distant 
from  the  Martinique  shore.  In  1804,  when  the  Eng- 
lish and  French  were  making  their  last  fight  for  the 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      183 

supremacy  of  the  Caribbean,  Admiral  Hood  laid  the 
H.  M.  S.  Centaur  close  under  the  lee  of  the  Rock,  put 
kedges  out  to  sea,  and  ran  lines  to  the  shore.  Fortu- 
nately, calm  weather  aided  the  Admiral  in  his  opera- 
tions and  he  was  able  to  hoist  three  long  24s  and  two 
1 8s  to  the  top  of  the  Rock  where  hasty  fortifications 
were  built.  Here  Lieutenant  Maurice,  with  one 
hundred  and  twenty  men,  harassed  the  French  fleet. 

The  Rock  was  named  H.  M.  S.  Diamond  Rock  and 
for  sixteen  months  this  stationary  man-of-war  held  out 
against  the  French,  who  had  two  74s,  a  corvette,  a 
schooner,  and  eleven  gunboats.  Lack  of  food  finally 
caused  these  gallant  men  to  surrender  and  so  great 
was  the  admiration  of  the  French  governor,  the  Mar- 
quise de  Bouille,  that  he  treated  them  as  his  guests  at 
Fort  Royal  (Fort  de  France),  till  the  proper 
exchanges  could  be  made.  By  a  strange  coincidence, 
this  same  Maurice,  who  had  become  a  captain,  in  181 1 
captured  the  island  of  Anholt  and  successfully  held  it 
against  the  Danes. 

While  I  have  been  yarning  to  you  about  Diamond 
Rock,  I  have  also  partaken  of  my  frugal  sea-luncheon 
of  coconut,  pilot  bread,  and  chocolate.  I  believe,  just 
to  make  up  for  the  nastiness  of  the  weather,  I  raided 
my  larder  under  the  cockpit  floor  to  the  extent  of  a 
small  can  of  potted  meat,  and  I  remember  saving  the 
empty  tin  till  I  was  well  in  shore,  for  I  did  not  care 
to  excite  the  curiosity  of  a  chance  shark  that  might 
be  passing  by. 

The  squall  was  a  mixture  of  wind  and  spiteful  rain 
and  I  thought  of  the  Yakaboo  as  akin  to  the  chimney 
sweep's  donkey  in  "Water  Babies."     For  an  hour  it 


184.  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

blew  hard  and  then  let  up  as  quickly  as  it  had  come,  the 
sea  subsiding  as  if  by  magic.  I  found  that  we  were  well 
off  shore  nearly  due  west  of  Cape  Solomon,  four  miles 
from  the  point  where  the  squall  had  picked  me  up. 
Shaping  our  course  past  the  cape,  we  soon  ran. into  the 
calm  of  the  picturesque  bay  of  Fort  de  France. 

Tucked  well  back  from  the  sea,  on  the  northern 
shore  of  the  bay,  lay  the  capital  of  the  island.  The 
afternoon  was  in  its  decline  and  the  level  rays  of  the 
sun  striking  into  the  low  rain  clouds  that  hung  over  the 
land  threw  a  golden  light  on  the  town  and  hills,  making 
it  a  yellow-skied  picture  by  an  old  Dutch  master.  The 
effect  of  days  gone  by  was  heightened  by  the  presence 
of  a  large  square-rigger  that  lay  in  the  anchorage  with 
her  sails  brailed  up  to  dry  after  the  rain.  No  steamer 
was  there  to  mar  the  illusion — the  picture  was  not 
modern. 

As  I  rowed  closer  to  the  town  I  turned  from  time 
to  time  to  see  what  changes  were  going  on  behind  my 
back.  On  a  bluff  close  aboard  were  the  pretty  homes 
of  a  villa  quarter  and  over  one  the  tricolour  of  France 
proclaimed  the  governor's  house.  Beyond  was  a  row 
of  warehouses  fronting  the  sea  and  beyond  these,  as 
though  behind  a  bulwark,  rose  the  cathedral  steeple. 
At  the  far  end  of  the  row  of  warehouses  a  long  landing 
jetty  ran  out  at  right  angles  to  the  water  front.  Still 
farther  to  the  eastward  Fort  St.  Louis  lay  out  into  the 
harbour  jealously  guarding  the  carenage  behind  it.  At 
the  water's  edge  and  not  far  from  the  shore  end  of  the 
jetty  was  a  building  with  the  revenue  flag  over  it  and 
for  this  I  shaped  my  course. 

As  I  neared  the  government  landing  the  harbour- 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING      185 

master's  boat  came  out  with  its  dusky  crew  of  duanes 
(customs  officers),  wearing  blue  and  white-banded 
jerseys  and  the  French  helmet  of  the  tropics,  with  its 
brim  drooped  in  back  to  protect  the  nape  of  the 
neck.  I  passed  my  papers  to  them  and  started  to 
follow.  The  man  in  the  stern,  who  now  held  my 
expensive  bill  of  health,  waved  me  back. 

"Jettez  votre  ancre!" 

I  answered  that  I  carried  no  anchor  and  they  pulled 
away  as  from  a  pest. 

"Restez  la!"  he  yelled,  pointing  indefinitely  out  into 
the  middle  of  the  bay.  The  crew  landed  their  officer 
and  then  rowed  out  again,  placing  themselves  between 
me  and  the  shore.  Half  an  hour  passed;  I  could  see 
the  people  of  the  town  trickle  down  through  the  streets 
and  gather  along  the  water  front.  Then  I  began  to 
notice  that  there  was  something  wrong  with  the 
Yakaboo.  She  was  tired  and  woman-like  she  gave  way 
— not  to  tears,  but  the  reverse.  She  leaked.  She  had 
had  a  hard  day  of  it  and  wanted  to  sit  down  some- 
where; the  bottom  of  the  harbour  being  the  nearest 
place,  she  started  for  that.  A  seam  must  have  opened 
on  the  run  across  and  I  had  to  bail. 

But  what  on  earth  were  those  fellows  doing  with  my 
bill  of  health  and  why  on  earth  did  they  not  allow 
me  to  come  ashore  ?  Between  spells  of  bailing  I  took  up 
my  oars  and  started  to  circumnavigate  the  duanes,  but 
they  were  inshore  of  me  and  had  the  advantage.  The 
sun  sank  lower  and  the  crowd  along  shore  became 
denser.  Finally  it  dawned  upon  me.  My  expensive  bill 
of  health  was  dated  the  day  before  and  the  customs 
officers  were  trying  to  guess  what  I  had  been  doing  the 


186  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

day  before  and  where  I  had  been  the  previous  night. 
Why  they  did  not  ask  me  directly  I  do  not  know,  and 
what  they  actually  thought  and  said  to  each  other  I 
never  heard.  That  they  took  me  for  some  sort  of  spy 
I  am  certain. 

Two  weeks  in  quarantine  began  to  loom  up  as  a  vivid 
possibility.  I  then  remembered  that  "Monty"  at  Kings- 
town had  given  me  a  letter  to  his  brother-in-law,  a 
merchant  by  the  name  of  Richaud,  who  lived  in  Fort 
de  France.  The  next  move  was  to  get  the  letter  to 
Richaud — he  might  be  standing  in  that  crowd  on  the 
jetty.  So  I  took  the  letter  out  of  my  portfolio  and 
put  it  in  my  pocket  where  it  would  be  handy.  Then 
I  gave  the  Yakaboo  a  final  sponge -out  and  started  to 
pull  at  a  smart  pace  away  from  the  jetty.  The  crew  in 
the  harbour-master's  boat  swallowed  the  bait  and 
quickly  headed  me  off. 

In  a  flash  I  yanked  the  canoe  about  and  rowed  for 
the  jetty,  under  full  steam,  at  the  same  time  yelling 
over  my  shoulder  for  Monsieur  Richaud.  Luck  was 
with  me.  There  was  a  movement  in  the  crowd  and  a 
little  man  was  pushed  to  the  outer  edge  like  the  stone 
out  of  a  prune.  In  a  jiffy  I  was  alongside  and  the 
letter  was  in  his  hands.  The  baffled  duanes,  who  had 
turned  by  this  time  and  were  after  me  full  tilt,  nosed 
me  away  from  the  jetty,  while  I  lay  off,  softly  whistling 
"Yankee  Doodle."  This  seemed  to  take  with  the 
crowd  and  they  applauded.  They  were  not  in  sym- 
pathy with  duanes — few  West  Indians  are,  for  they 
are  all  fond  of  smuggling. 

Whether  it  was  Monty's  letter  backed  by  the  pull 
of  Monsieur  Richaud,  who  seemed  to  be  a  man  of 


DELIGHTS  OF  CHANNEL  RUNNING       187 

some  importance,  or  whether  the  officials  decided  to 
call  it  a  day  and  to  go  home,  I  don't  know,  but  I 
was  at  last  beckoned  to  come  ashore  and  just  in  time, 
for  the  Yakaboo  sank  with  a  gurgle  of  relief  in  the  soft 
ooze  on  the  beach.  Before  I  knew  what  was  going  on, 
my  whole  outfit  was  bundled  into  the  customs  office  to 
undergo  the  inspection  of  the  officials.  Even  the  canoe 
was  bailed  out  and  carried  into  the  barracks,  where  she 
rested  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  a  gunrack  filled  with 
cumbersome  St.  fitienne  rifles.  There  being  no  Bible 
handy  I  placed  my  hand  on  the  next  most  holy  thing, 
the  bosom  of  my  shirt,  and  swore  that  after  this  I 
would  cruise  in  seas  more  homogeneous  as  to  the  na- 
tionality of  their  islands.  While  this  silent  ceremony 
was  going  on,  the  duanes  looked  at  me  in  an  awed  way 
and  one  of  them  muttered  "Fou"  (crazy).  He  was 
probably  right. 

But  Monsieur  Richaud  was  there  and  he  introduced 
himself  to  me.  He  had  been  expecting  me  for  some 
time,  he  said,  and  I  explained  as  best  I  could — it  was 
mental  agony  to  try  to  recall  from  a  musty  memory 
words  that  I  had  not  used  for  ten  years  or  more — that 
I  had  spent  some  time  with  the  Caribs  in  Saint  Vincent 
and  some  time  in  Saint  Lucia,  since  I  had  left  "Monty." 
Monsieur  was  a  little,  jolly  round-faced  Frenchman 
with  the  prosperous  air  of  a  business  man  of  some 
consequence.  He  was  reputed  to  be  one  of  the  rich 
men  of  Fort  de  France.  Would  I  bestow  upon  him 
the  honour  of  dining  with  him  at  his  house?  I  would 
bestow  that  honour.  We  said  "au  revoir"  to  the  duanes 
and  stepped  out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MARTINIQUE FORT  DE  FRANCE 

IT  was  dark  and  it  was  raining.  My  clothes  were 
already  wet  and  I  sloshed  along  the  narrow  side- 
walks behind  the  little  man  like  a  dripping  Newfound- 
land dog.  His  wife  was  ill,  he  said,  but  he  wished  to 
at  least  give  me  a  dinner,  a  change  of  clothes  and 
then  find  me  a  lodging  place.  I  had  become  so  used 
to  wet  clothing  that  I  forgot  to  bring  my  dry  duds.  I 
could  see  little  of  the  town  as  we  walked  along  the 
dark  streets,  but  the  impression  was  that  of  a  small  city 
— larger  than  any  I  had  yet  seen  in  these  islands.  At 
our  elbows  was  a  monotonous  unbroken  wall  of  house 
fronts  with  closed  doors  and  jalousied  windows,  which 
occasionally  gave  a  faint  gleam  of  light.  Presently 
my  friend  stopped  in  front  of  one  of  the  doors  and 
pushed  it  in.  We  stepped  into  a  sort  of  wide  corridor 
at  the  farther  end  of  which  was  another  door  through 
which  we  passed  into  my  friend's  house.  The  house  in 
reality  had  two  fronts,  one  on  the  street  and  this  which 
faced  on  a  sort  of  patio  which  separated  it  from  the 
kitchen  and  servants'  quarters.  I  made  this  hasty 
survey  as  the  master  gave  some  orders  in  patois  to  a 
large  negress,  whose  attention  was  fixed  on  my  be- 
draggled figure,  which  gave  the  impression  of  having 
but  lately  been  fished  out  of  the  sea. 

188 


MARTINIQUE— FORT  DE  FRANCE        189 

First  of  all  there  was  that  enjoyable  little  liquid 
ceremony,  "a  votre  sante,"  in  which  I  rose  in  the  esti- 
mation of  mine  host  upon  denying  allegiance  to  "wisky- 
ansoda."  This  should  be  further  proof  that  I  was  no 
English  spy  at  least.  Then  I  was  led  upstairs  to  the 
guest  room  which  Monsieur  was  now  occupying. 
Monsieur  was  short  and  beamy,  while  my  build  was  of 
the  reverse  order,  and  the  result  of  the  change  of 
dry  clothes  which  I  put  on  was  ludicrous — but  I  was 
dry  and  comfortable,  which  was  the  main  thing.  It 
was  pleasant  to  know  that  I  could  now  sit  down  in  a 
comfortable  chair  without  leaving  a  lasting  salt  stain 
behind  me,  pink-dyed  from  the  colour  which  was  con- 
tinually running,  from  the  lining  of  my  coat.  What 
little  dignity  to  which  I  may  lay  claim,  took  wing  at  the 
sight  of  a  foot  of  brown  paw  and  forearm  dangling 
from  the  sleeve  of  the  coat.  In  like  manner  the 
trousers  withdrew  to  a  discreet  distance  from  my  feet 
and  hung  in  desperate  puckers  around  my  middle. 

Thus  arrayed  I  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of 
Madame  Richaud,  who  lay  recovering  from  an  attack 
of  fever  in  an  immense  four-poster.  I  paid  my  respects, 
assured  her  of  the  good  health  and  well-being  of  her 
brother,  and  bowing  with  as  much  grace  as  possible, 
I  followed  my  host  to  the  drawing  room. 

The  door  through  which  we  had  passed  from  the 
street  to  the  house  of  Monsieur  Richaud  was  what 
one  might  call  a  general  utility  door,  used  by  the  master 
of  the  house  on  all  ordinary  occasions  and  by  the 
servants  and  tradespeople.  This  door,  as  I  have  said, 
opened  into  a  sort  of  corridor  or  antechamber  through 
which  one  had  to  pass  before  gaining  access  to  the 


190  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

house  proper.  There  was,  however,  another  street 
door,  which  opened  from  the  sidewalk  directly  into 
the  parlour  or  living  room,  where  I  now  sat  with  my 
friend.  This  gives  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  inti- 
macy with  the  street — in  a  step  one  moves  from  the 
living  room  to  the  sidewalk.  It  made  me  think  of  one 
of  the  smaller  canals  of  Venice,  where  I  had  seen  an 
urchin  dive  from  a  front  window  into  the  street.  On 
either  side  of  this  door  were  two  windows,  lacking 
glass,  with  jalousies  between  the  interstices  of  which 
I  could  now  and  then  see  the  whites  of  peeking  eyes. 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  these  people  to  be  fond  of  street 
life  and  during  my  stay  in  Fort  de  France  I  noticed  that 
the  little  balconies,  with  long  French  windows  opening 
upon  them,  which  projected  from  the  second  stories, 
were  occupied  most  of  the  time.  The  aspect  of  the 
glaring  white  and  yellow  houses,  monotonous  as  the 
sheer  walls  of  the  Wallibu  Dry  River,  could  never  be  so 
pleasing  as  the  green  courtyards  in  the  rear,  viewed 
from  large  airy  galleries.  It  was  just  the  drift  of 
the  street,  a  casual  word  now  and  then  and  a  few 
exchanges  with  neighbours  similarly  occupied. 

As  we  talked,  the  thought  came  to  me  that  there 
was  at  least  one  advantage  to  this  parlour  street  door 
— it  was  handy  for  funerals.  Strange  to  say,  I  saw 
such  a  room  put  to  just  this  use  the  very  next  day. 
The  corpse  was  laid  in  state  in  the  parlour  and  the 
doors  were  wide  open  so  that  any  one,  who  wished, 
might  enter  in  and  look.  There  is,  of  course,  some  de- 
gree of  common  sense  in  this,  for  the  rest  of  the  house 
being  practically  cut  off,  the  family  need  not  be  dis- 
turbed by  the  entrance  of  numerous  friends,  some  of 


MARTINIQUE— FORT  DE  FRANCE        191 

whom  may  not  alone  be  satisfied  in  viewing  the  corpse, 
but  take  a  morbid  delight  in  viewing  the  grief  of 
others. 

But  all  this  had  little  to  do  with  the  dinner  which 
was  announced  from  the  door  of  the  adjoining 
dining  room.  Monsieur  Richaud's  two  children,  a 
boy  and  a  girl  in  that  nondescript  age  which  precedes 
the  backfisch,  now  put  in  their  appearance,  the  girl 
proudly  taking  the  place  of  her  mother  at  the  head  of 
the  table.  The  dinner  was  excellent,  but  what  I  ate 
I  did  not  remember  even  long  enough  to  write  in  my 
note-book  the  next  day,  for  while  I  was  mechanically 
eating  a  soup  that  was  delicious,  I  could  give  no  specific 
thought  to  it,  but  must  concentrate  my  entire  attention 
to  fetching  up  those  few  French  words  which  were 
resting  in  the  misty  depths  of  my  mind  as  in  the  muddy 
bottom  of  a  well.  Having  "dove  up"  those  words,  I 
used  them  in  a  conversation  which,  while  it  was  under- 
stood by  Monsieur  Richaud,  afforded  considerable 
amusement  to  the  children.  But  the  little  Frenchman 
fared  no  better.  Wishing  to  impress  me  with  his 
familiarity  with  the  English  language  he  described  the 
beauties  of  the  northern  coast  of  Martinique.  He  came 
to  a  fitting  climax  when  he  told  of  a  river — "w'ich 
arrive  at  zee  sea  by  casharettes." 

When  the  substantial  part  of  the  meal  was  over,  a 
wash  basin,  soap  and  towel  were  passed  around — 
satisfactory  if  not  aesthetic — the  three  articles  remind- 
ing me  of  their  relations  on  the  back  stoop  of  a  western 
farmhouse.  After  this,  the  fruit,  which  in  this  case  was 
mango.  I  will  not  repeat  the  ponderous  witticism 
regarding  the  mango  and  the  bath-tub.     I  have  often 


192  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

speculated  on  this  joke,  however,  and  have  almost  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  invented  first  and  the  fruit 
discovered  afterward.  I  can  imagine  Captain  Cook 
suddenly  starting  up  and  slapping  his  thigh.  "What 
ho!"  he  shouts,  "I  have  thought  up  a  most  excellent 
joke,  but  I  must  find  a  fruit  to  fit  it."  And  so  he 
sets  forth,  discovers  the  mango  and  circumnavigates 
the  globe. 

However,  we  ate  mangoes  and  our  fingers  became 
messy.  As  I  was  looking  for  some  place  to  rest  my 
hands  where  they  would  do  the  least  damage  to  table 
linen,  the  negress,  who  had  been  serving  us,  brought  in 
four  plates  with  large  finger  bowls  on  them.  There 
was  tepid  water  in  the  bowls  and  by  their  sides  were 
small  beakers  about  the  size  of  bird-baths.  First  we 
took  up  the  beakers,  filled  them  with  water  from  the 
bowls  and  set  them  aside.  Then  we  washed  our  finger 
tips  in  the  bowls  and  finally  dipped  them  in  the  clean 
water  in  the  beakers  and  wiped  our  lips,  an  aesthetic 
proceeding  which  averaged  the  use  of  the  wash  basin 
and  the  soap.  This  rite  concluded,  the  beaker  was 
upset  in  the  bowl — a  signal  that  the  dinner  was  over. 

Thus  dried,  fed  and  doubly  cleansed,  my  sum  of  con- 
tent lacked  only  tobacco  and  a  bed.  They  raise  their 
own  tobacco  in  Martinique — Tabac  de  Martinique — 
and  that  it  is  pure  is  where  praise  halts  and  turns  her 
back.  As  for  strength — I  called  it  Tabac  de  Diable.  I 
have  shaved  the  festive  plug  and  smoked  the  black 
twist  that  resembled  a  smoked  herring  from  the  time 
of  the  Salem  witches,  but  these  are  as  corn  silk  to 
the  Tabac  de  Martinique.  I  had  finished  my  supply 
of  tobacco  from  home  and  now,  forced  to  use  the 


MARTINIQUE— FORT  DE  FRANCE        193 

weed  of  Martinique,  I  "learned  to  love  it."  There 
was  nothing  else  to  do.  It  reminded  me  of  the  tender- 
foot who  leaned  up  against  a  white  pine  bar  in  the 
Far  West  and  asked  for  a  mint  julep — "Well 
frapped."  As  the  barkeeper  produced  a  tumbler  and 
a  bottle  he  said,  "You'll  have  three  fingers  of  this  bug 
juice  and  you'll  love  it."  But  the  Tabac  de  Dia- 
ble  served  me  a  good  turn.  Half  a  year  later,  in 
the  cosy  tap  room  of  the  Fitzwilliam  Tavern,  I  incau- 
tiously left  a  partly  smoked  cigar  within  the  reach  of 
a  practical  joker,  who,  taking  advantage  of  my  pre- 
occupation in  a  book,  watched  the  cigar  go  out  and 
then  with  the  aid  of  a  pin  inserted  a  piece  of  elastic 
band  into  the  end  of  the  cigar.  I  did  not  notice  the 
anticipation  of  a  bit  of  fun  on  the  faces  of  the  men 
who  had  come  from  an  uninteresting  game  of  bridge 
in  another  room.  I  relit  the  cigar  and  resumed  the 
smoking  of  it,  still  deeply  engrossed  in  my  book.  I 
remembered  later  that  one  by  one  the  jokers  had  left 
the  room  with  silent  tread  as  if  in  the  presence  of  the 
dead.  For  once  I  was  alone  in  the  room  and  I  had  the 
fireplace  to  myself.  I  finished  the  cigar  and  threw 
the  stump  into  the  fire.  It  was  the  Tabac  de  Diable 
that  had  inoculated  me  and  for  some  time  after  I 
left  Martinique  I  found  that  I  could  smoke  almost 
anything  that  was  at  all  porous  and  would  burn  if  an 
indraft  was  applied  to  it.  But  I  did  not  enjoy  it  that 
first  time  when  Monsieur  Richaud  handed  me  a  Marti- 
nique cigar. 

There  now  remained  the  last  want — a  bed — and 
my  friend  guessed  this  for  I  nearly  fell  asleep  over 
his  cigar. 


194  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

He  led  me  out  into  the  deserted  streets  lighted  by 
a  faint  starlight  and  still  shining  from  the  rain  which 
had  let  up.  We  turned  into  one  of  the  main  thorough- 
fares at  the  end  of  which  blazed  an  electric  light, 
yellow,  like  the  moon  rising  through  a  mist.  Here 
flourished  the  "Grand  Hotel  de  l'Europe,"  a  name,  I 
believe,  as  legion  as  Smith.  I  fully  expect,  after  cross- 
ing my  last  channel,  the  Styx,  to  find  a  sign  on  the  other 
shore  thus: — "Grand  Hotel  de  l'Europe — Coolest  Spot 
in  Hades — Asbestos  Linen — Sight  Seeing  Auto  Hell- 
speed  leaves  at  10  A.  M. — Choice  New  Consignment 
of  Magnates  seen  at  Hard  Labour." 

My  tired  senses  made  scant  note  of  the  marble- 
floored  room,  the  click  of  the  billiard  balls,  and  the 
questioning  glances  of  the  wasp-betrousered  French 
officers,  and  I  bade  good  night  to  my  host,  who  had 
vouched  for  my  harmlessness  and  left  me  in  charge  of 
the  clerk. 

The  kaleidoscope  day  came  to  an  end  as  I  crawled 
under  the  mosquito  bar  of  an  immense  four-poster,  in 
a  room  on  the  premier  Stage,  and  dove  between  the 
sheets  with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction. 

At  first  I  thought  it  was  the  love  song  of  a  mosquito, 
but  as  I  began  to  awaken  the  sound  resolved  itself  in- 
to the  thin  blare  of  a  trumpet-call  and  I  wondered 
where  I  was.  My  eyes,  directed  at  the  ceiling  when  I 
opened  them,  caught  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  sifted 
through  the  jalousies  and  striking  the  gauze  canopy 
over  me  in  bands  of  moted  light.  The  trumpet  sound- 
ed again — this  time  almost  under  my  window — and 
stretching  out  of  bed  like  a  snail  from  its  shell,  I 
peeked  through  the  vanes  of  the  jalousie  and  saw  a  com- 


MARTINIQUE—FORT  DE  FRANCE        195 

pany  of  soldiers  returning  from  their  morning  drill. 

There  was  a  delicious  novelty  about  it  all  that  made 
me  feel  absolutely  carefree,  and,  as  I  thought  of  the 
Yakaboo  and  her  precious  outfit,  I  hoped  that  they,  as 
well  as  I,  had  rested  in  the  customs  station  with  its  anti- 
quated St.  fitienne  rifles  for  company.  I  hoped  that 
there  had  been  no  quarrel  between  my  Austrian  gun 
and  the  Frenchmen  and  that  my  little  British  rifle  had 
not  flaunted  the  Union  Jack  in  their  faces.  I  was  in 
that  coma  of  carelessness  when  if  an  earthquake  had 
come  to  crush  out  my  life  with  the  falling  of  the  pond- 
erous walls  about  me,  I  would  have  reproved  it  with 
the  dying  words,  "Oh,  pshaw,  why  didn't  you  wait  till 
I  had  finished  my  cruise  ?"  This  feeling  is  worth 
travelling  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  experience. 

A  knock  on  the  door  brought  forth  a  hasty  "Entrez" 
as  I  slid  back  between  the  sheets.  An  aged  negress 
brought  in  a  small  pot  of  coffee  and  a  pitcher  of  hot 
milk  which  I  found  to  my  horror  would  have  to  stay 
my  hunger  until  the  hour  of  dejeuner  at  eleven. 

Later,  another  knock  ushered  in  my  clothes  from 
Monsieur  Richaud,  already  washed  and  dried.  My 
precious  shirt  looked  like  a  miserable  piece  of  bunting 
after  a  rainy  Fourth  of  July,  faded  and  colour-run.  I 
dressed  and  sallied  forth  to  investigate  the  town. 

Fort  de  France  was  as  new  and  strange  to  me  as  St. 
George's  had  been  and  far  more  interesting.  An  im- 
pending week  of  rainy  weather  decided  for  me  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  spend  that  week  here.  Until  I 
was  ready  to  put  to  sea  again  and  sail  for  Dominica  I 
could  not  take  my  outfi;  away  from  the  customs  office. 
Camping  along  shore,  then,  was  out  of  the  question. 


196  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

There  was  no  alternative  for  me  than  to  become  for 
the  time  a  part  of  the  life  of  the  town.  Curiously 
enough,  I  find  that  one  passes  through  various  phases 
during  the  first  few  days  in  a  new  town  or  country.  At 
first  there  is  the  novelty  of  the  place  which  appeals  to 
one.  This  is  followed  by  a  period  of  restlessness — the 
first  blush  of  novelty  has  worn  off  and  one  comes  al- 
most to  the  point  of  hating  the  place.  It  is  like  the 
European  tourist  who  rushes  upon  a  town,  gorges  him- 
self with  what  pictures  and  sights  are  easily  accessible 
and  then  in  a  fit  of  surfeit  hates  the  thought  of  the  rich 
optical  food  before  him.  But  then  comes  the  third 
stage,  which  lasts  indefinitely,  when  the  spirit  of  the 
town  makes  itself  felt  and  one  begins  to  see  through 
the  thin  veneer  of  first  impressions  and  to  make 
friends.  Those  first  impressions — unless  they  are  very 
striking — vanish  little  by  little  till  one  comes  to  regard 
the  place  more  or  less  with  the  eyes  of  the  native. 
After  all,  this  whole  process  is  both  natural  and  human. 
It  is  during  the  last  stage  (granting  always  that  the 
town  or  country  has  any  interest  for  one  at  all)  that 
the  residence  in  all  out  of  the  way  places  is  brought 
about  of  stray  Englishmen,  Scotchmen,  Irishmen  and 
in  more  recent  years  Americans.  One  commonly  hears 
the  admission,  "I  didn't  care  for  the  place  at  all  at 
first  but  somehow  I  became  fond  of  it  and  here  I  am — 
let's  see,  it's  blank  years  now  .  .  ." 

My  first  care  was  for  my  outfit  which  I  was  allowed 
to  overhaul  and  put  in  order  in  the  barracks  room. 
My  portfolio  and  camera  I  could  take  with  me  to  the 
hotel,  but  the  latter  was  of  no  use  for  my  films  be- 
came fogged  from  the  excessive  moisture  of  a  rainy 


MARTINIQUE— FORT  DE  FRANCE        197 

week  and  when  I  did  try  to  make  an  exposure  it  was 
only  of  some  conventional  subject.  I  could  not  wander 
at  random  from  the  confines  of  the  town  nor  edge  near 
the  picturesque  carenage  in  back  of  Fort  St.  Louis 
where  there  is  an  important  coaling  station  and  repair 
shop  without  being  shadowed  by  some  private  ap- 
parently detailed  for  the  purpose.  While  overhauling 
my  outfit  I  could  see  that  every  bag  had  been  care- 
fully searched — nothing,  of  course,  was  missing. 
Through  some  sort  of  feigned  misunderstanding  I  was 
unable  to  get  back  my  expensive  bill  of  health — per- 
haps they  thought  I  might  alter  the  date  and  use  it  in 
Guadeloupe  (above  Dominica),  the  next  French  island. 
I  had  hoped  to  bluff  the  harbour-master  at  Dominica, 
but  with  my  French  bill  of  health  gone,  I  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  obtain  a  new  paper  for  Dominica — the 
officials  saw  to  that — and  it  was  just  as  well  in  the  end 
for  I  met  with  the  same  officiousness  that  greeted  Cap- 
tain Slocum  when  I  arrived  at  Roseau. 

It  had  been  raining  and  the  deep,  old-world  gutters 
were  full,  miniature  canals  in  which  the  broken  shell 
of  a  coconut  might  be  seen  sailing  down  to  the  sea  like 
the  egg  shell  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen.  Apparent- 
ly most  of  the  refuse  of  the  town  is  carried  off  in  these 
gutters.  But  the  canal  gutters  serve  another  purpose — 
they  wash  the  feet  of  the  country  people.  One  sees  a 
woman  whose  muddy  or  dusty  feet  proclaim  her  to 
be  from  the  country,  walking  into  town  with  a  mon- 
strous burden  on  her  head.  She  will  suddenly  stop 
on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  and  balance  on  one  foot 
while  she  carefully  lowers  the  other  into  the  running 
water  of  the  gutter.    She  may  at  the  same  time  be  pass- 


198  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

ing  the  time  o'  day  with  some  approaching  acquaintance 
half  a  block  away.  Their  conversation  seems  to  have 
a  universal  focus  for  any  distance  under  a  quarter  of 
a  mile — the  intensity  is  the  same  for  three  feet  or  a 
block. 

Having  washed  her  right  foot  with  the  nonchalance 
of  a  tightrope  walker,  she  goes  on  her  way  till  she 
makes  such  a  turning  as  will  bring  her  left  foot  along- 
side the  gutter,  and  she  proceeds  as  before. 

It  was  usually  in  the  afternoon  that  I  saw  that  most 
picturesque  sang  mele,  the  Creole  of  Martinique,  unaf- 
fected by  the  so-called  advance  of  civilisation,  wearing 
the  dress  of  watered  silk  and  the  heavy  gold  ornaments, 
with  just  that  faint  trace  of  interesting  barbarity  that 
goes  with  the  generous  features,  the  wide-spread  eyes 
and  the  blue-black  hair.  She  is  a  reminder  of  Creole 
days  of  French  Louisiana — the  coarser  progenitor  of 
our  so-called  "creole."  I  could  see  that  most  of  these 
women  were  married,  by  the  sign  of  the  madras  qua- 
landi  which  is  in  reality  a  silk  bandana  tied  on  the  head 
turban-wise,  one  corner  knotted  and  stuck  upright  above 
the  forehead  like  a  feather.  The  unmarried  women 
wear  the  madras  in  the  usual  manner,  that  is,  without 
the  knotted  corner  upright. 

That  these  women  are  beautiful  there  is  no  denying; 
the  skin  though  it  may  be  dark  is  very  clear  and  the  eyes 
give  a  frank  open  expression  and  by  reason  of  their 
position  seem  to  diminish  what  African  coarseness  may 
have  been  left  in  the  nose.  The  nose  may  be  flattish 
and  a  bit  heavy  but  the  broad,  even  high  forehead, 
wide-spread  eyes  and  perfect  teeth  counteract  this  ef- 
fect so  that  it  is  hardly  noticeable.      One  finds  these 


MARTINIQUE— FORT  DE  FRANCE        199 

people  a  delightful  contrast  to  the  rawboned  Creole  of 
the  English  colonies  with  her  male-like  figure  and  ec- 
centricities of  hair,  nose,  lips,  hands  and  feet. 

There  was  a  refreshing  spirit  of  enterprise — we  get 
the  word  from  the  French — and  of  varied  interests  that 
were  a  relief  after  having  seen  the  "live  and  bear  it*? 
spirit  of  the  English  islands.  The  people  of  Marti- 
nique are  industrious  and  they  are  happy — the  one 
naturally  follows  the  other.  In  the  market  I  found  near- 
ly all  the  vegetables  of  the  temperate  climate  besides 
those  of  the  tropics.  They  are  now  extensively  grow- 
ing the  vanilla  bean  and  the  Liberian  coffee  is  excellent. 
The  wines  which  they  import  from  France  are  inex- 
pensive. In  drinking  the  claret  they  dilute  it  with  water 
which  is  the  French  custom  and  is  as  it  should  be.  One 
might  live  very  comfortably  in  Fort  de  France.  There 
were  electric  lights  and  book  stores  where  one  could 
buy  the  current  French  magazines — illustrated,  humor- 
ous and  naughty.  I  bought  several.  There  was  just 
one  step  in  their  enterprise  which  I  did  not  appreciate 
and  that  was  the  cultivating  of  home-grown  tobacco — 
Tabac  de  Diable. 

My  walks  about  town  were  for  the  most  part  sallies 
from  the  hotel  during  intermissions  between  showers — 
for  it  rained  almost  continually  for  the  entire  week. 
These  sallies  I  alternated  with  periods  of  writing  in 
the  quiet  little  cabaret  where  an  occasional  acquaintance 
would  sit  down  for  a  chat,  my  French  taking  courage 
from  day  to  day  like  an  incipient  moustache.  I  usually 
occupied  a  marble-topped  table  under  an  open  window 
by  which  bobbed  the  heads  of  passers-by. 

What  front  the  Hotel  de  l'Europe  boasts,  faces  to- 


200  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

ward  the  savanna  in  the  middle  of  which  stands  the 
statue  of  the  Empress  Josephine.  Here  she  stands, 
guarded  by  a  high  iron  fence  and  surrounded  by  seven 
tall  palms,  their  tops,  towering  to  a  lofty  coronet,  above 
her  head,  seemed  to  claim  her  after  all  as  a  child  of 
the  West  Indies.  She  is  looking  pensively  across  the 
bay  towards  Trois  f lets  where  she  may  or  may  not  have 
been  born  and  where  so  many  sentimental  steamer-deck 
authorities  on  the  West  Indies  may  or  may  not  have 
made  pilgrimages  to  the  parish  church  and  perhaps  to 
the  ruins  of  the  La  Pagerie  estate.  That  she  spent  a 
considerable  part  of  her  West  Indian  days  in  Saint 
Lucia  there  can  be  no  doubt  and  I  will  say  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  steamer-deck  authorities  that  there  is  a  very 
strong  likelihood  that  she  was  born  in  that  island.  Was 
it  some  ironical  whim  that  tempted  the  sculptor  to  im- 
part a  wistfulness  in  her  face  which  seemed  to  carry  her 
thoughts  far  beyond  Trois  ilets  and  across  the  channel 
to  the  little  plantation  on  the  Morne  Paix-Bouche  and 
perhaps  still  farther,  along  that  half  mythical  chemin 
de  la  Longue  Chasse,  which  I  discovered  some  time 
later  on  an  old  map  of  Saint  Lucia,  leading  from  the 
Dauphin  quarter  down  to  Soufriere?  I  have  often 
wondered  whether  it  was  mere  chance  that  impelled 
the  sculptor  to  express  that  sign  of  parturient  woman- 
hood for  which  Napoleon  longed  and  the  lack  of  which 
caused  one  of  the  most  pathetic  partings  in  history. 

One  morning  I  was  honoured  by  a  call  from  the  clerk 
of  the  hotel.  A  delegation  from  the  Union  Sportive 
Martiniquaise  et  Touring  Club  Antillais  wished  to 
wait  upon  me  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon — would 
I  receive  them?    At  four,  then,  while  I  was  sitting  at 


MARTINIQUE— FORT  DE  FRANCE        201 

my  table  in  the  cabaret,  the  delegation  of  four  came, 
headed  by  a  fiery  little  man  of  dark  hue — but  a 
thorough  Frenchman.  His  name  was  Waddy  and  I 
came  to  like  him  very  much.  The  committee  was  very 
much  embarrassed  as  a  whole  and  individually  like 
timid  schoolgirls,  but  if  they  blushed  it  was  like  the 
desert  violet — unseen. 

Would  I  do  them  the  honour  to  be  entertained  for 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon?  I  said  that  I  should  be  de- 
lighted— and  felt  like  a  cheap  edition  of  Dr.  Cook. 
Waddy  explained  to  me  that  the  club  was  very  much 
interested  in  my  cruise  and  that  it  was  their  intention  to 
become  familiar  with  the  other  islands  of  the  Antilles. 
The  members  of  the  club  were  for  the  most  part  eager 
to  visit  the  neighbouring  islands  but  they  were  too  timid 
to  trust  themselves  to  anything  smaller  than  a  steamer 
and  while  there  was  more  or  less  frequent  communica- 
tion by  steamer  with  Europe  there  was  no  inter-island 
service  except  by  sloop.  My  coming  in  a  canoe  had  set 
them  a  wonderful  example,  he  told  me. 

We  then  walked  to  the  jetty  and  were  rowed  out  into 
the  harbour  to  visit  a  West  Indian  schooner  of  the  type 
that  sailed  from  Martinique  to  Cayenne  and  upon 
which  Waddy  hoped  the  Club  as  a  whole  could  some 
day  be  induced  to  cruise.  She  was  an  old  Gloucester 
fisherman  of  about  eighty  tons  and  perfectly  safe  (I 
assured  Waddy)  for  the  use  of  the  Touring  Club  An- 
tillais.  Having  surveyed  the  schooner  we  were  rowed 
ashore  where  a  carriage  awaited  us.  We  then  drove 
by  a  circuitous  route,  carefully  planned  out  beforehand 
to  include  the  various  sights  of  note  in  the  town,  to 


ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

the  rented  house  in  the  Rue  Amiral  de  Gueydon  where 
the  Union  Sportive  Martiniquaise  et  Touring  Club 
Antillais  thrived. 

I  was  escorted  to  a  room  on  the  upper  floor  where 
the  Union  Sportive  Martiniquaise  et  Touring  Club  was 
already  gathered.  To  my  intense  embarrassment,  the 
President  of  the  Union  Sportive  Martiniquaise  et 
Touring  proceeded  to  read  off  a  long  speech  from  a 
paper  in  his  hand.  What  he  said  I  managed  to  under- 
stand for  the  most  part  but  it  concerns  us  little  here.  I 
replied  to  the  members  of  the  Union  Sportive  Martini- 
quaise to  the  best  of  my  ability — in  French — and  what 
I  said  I  know  but  they  did  not  understand — neither 
does  that  concern  us  in  this  writing.  After  a  pleasant 
stramash  of  verbal  bouquets  we  were  served  with  re- 
freshments which  consisted  of  champagne  and  lady 
fingers.  Champagne  is  not  a  rare  beverage  in  the 
French  islands,  but  I  did  not  imagine  that  I  should 
see  it  used  with  the  familiarity  with  which  the  German 
treats  his  morning  coffee;  I  mean  the  habit  of  dipping 
his  toast  in  it.  But  dipping  seemed  the  custom  and 
into  the  champagne  went  the  lady  fingers  of  the  Union 
Sportive,  and  mine.  To  me  these  people  were  warm- 
hearted and  impulsive  and  as  I  got  to  know  them, 
thoroughly  likeable. 

According  to  my  almanac,  it  was  Easter  Sunday  and 
I  almost  felt  ashamed  of  my  morning  cigarette  as  I 
left  the  hotel  for  a  little  stroll  before  I  should  sit 
down  to  my  notes  at  the  marble-topped  table.  But 
somehow  or  other  I  thought  I  must  be  mistaken  in  the 
day.  While  there  were  few  people  on  the  streets, 
to  be  sure,  all  the  small  shops  were  open.     I  walked 


MARTINIQUE— FORT  DE  FRANCE        203 

over  to  the  covered  market  and  to  my  surprise  I  found 
that  open  also  but  most  of  the  business  had  already 
been  transacted.  But  the  large  stores,  emporiums  and 
magasins  as  they  were  called,  were  closed.  Then  I 
passed  a  church  and  saw  that  it  was  packed.  Another 
church  was  packed.  The  priests  were  doing  a  thriving 
business  and  I  realised  that  perhaps  after  all  it  was 
Easter  Sunday.  I  did  not  know  that  with  the  ending 
of  Lent  the  people  were  having  a  last  injection  of  the 
antitoxin  of  religion  to  inoculate  themselves  from  the 
influence  of  Satan  which  was  sure  to  follow  on  Monday. 
And  it  was  on  account  of  Monday  that  the  small  shops 
and  the  market  were  open,  for  everybody  went  to  the 
country  for  the  Easter  holidays,  that  is  everybody  who 
was  anybody,  and  they  left  the  town  to  the  proletariat. 
Those  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to  spend 
the  week  in  the  country  must  need  get  their  last  fresh 
supplies  at  the  market  and  the  little  necessities  such  as 
sweets,  tobacco  and  so  on  which  were  apt  to  be  forgot- 
ten in  the  press  of  Saturday  could  yet  be  bought  on 
the  way  home  from  church. 

The  next  morning  I  found  that  the  market  was  not 
open  and  that  all  the  shops  were  closed.  So  were  the 
houses  for  that  matter — everybody  had  made  an  early 
departure,  the  devil  was  having  his  due  and  the  town 
was  left  to  the  rest.  Various  members  of  the  Union 
Sportive  played  soccer  football  beneath  the  unheeding 
eyes  of  the  Empress,  in  costumes  that  would  have 
brought  a  smile  to  those  marble  lips,  I  believe,  could 
she  have  looked  down  at  them.  With  utter  disregard 
for  the  likes  or  dislikes  of  one  colour  for  another  these 
members  of  the  Union  Sportive  wore  jerseys  of  banded 


204  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

red,  green  and  purple  and  with  an  equal  disregard  for 
the  fierce  tropical  heat,  they  raced  over  the  savanna, 
most  of  them  with  knickerbockers  but  some  with  trous- 
ers, brailed  up,  if  one  might  use  the  seagoing  term.  But 
all  the  trousers  did  not  calmly  submit  to  this  seagoing 
treatment  and  generally  slipped  down  as  to  the  left 
leg.  (After  some  consideration  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  this  phenomenon  was  on  account  of 
the  left  leg  usually  being  smaller  than  the  right;  hence 
the  left  trouser  leg  would  be  more  prone  to  come 
down.)  One  would  see  an  energetic  member  of  the 
Union  being  carried  rapidly  after  the  ball  by  a  pair 
of  legs,  one  decorously  covered  and  the  other  exposed 
in  all  its  masculine  shamelessness  of  pink  underwear, 
livid  "Y"  of  garter,  violent  hose  of  Ethiopian  choice 
and  shoe  of  generous  dimension  with  long  French  toe, 
cutting  arcs  in  advance  and  bootstrap  waving  bravely 
behind.  Even  to  stand  perfectly  still  in  the  shade  of 
a  tree  to  watch  this  performance  was  heating  and  I 
moved  on. 

The  unearthly  squeal  of  a  flute  brought  me  across 
the  savanna  to  a  shady  grove  where  something  was 
holding  the  attention  of  a  large  crowd.  The  flute,  I 
found,  was  only  one  of  four  instruments  held  captive  in 
a  ring  of  prancing  wooden  horses  that  circled  on  an 
iron  track  like  fish  in  a  well.  Each  horse  was  mounted 
on  an  iron  wheel  with  pedals  and  those  who  could  af- 
ford the  necessary  five  sous  were  allowed  to  circle 
for  a  time  on  this  merry-go-round,  in  mad  delight,  the 
power  coming  from  their  own  mahogany  limbs  which 
showed  a  like  absence  of  stockings  in  both  sexes.  The 
riders  wore  shoes  and  the  impression  when  they  were 


MARTINIQUE— FORT  DE  FRANCE        205 

in  motion  was  that  they  also  wore  stockings  but  when 
the  ride  came  to  an  end  the  illusion  vanished.  There 
was  no  central  pivot,  merely  this  bracelet  of  horses  fas- 
tened to  each  other  and  kept  from  cavorting  away  over 
the  savanna  by  the  U-shaped  track  wherein  ran  the 
wheels  under  their  bellies.  It  was  a  piece  of  engineer- 
ing skill — the  evident  pride  of  the  owner — and  being 
machinery  it  must  needs  be  oiled.  For  this  purpose 
a  boy  wandered  about  in  the  confines  of  this  equine 
circle  with  a  long-spouted  oilcan  in  his  hand.  The 
shrieking  axles,  while  in  motion,  were  guarded  by  the 
pumping  legs  of  the  riders  and  therefore  could  not  be 
Diled;  there  remained  only  one  other  part  for  lubrica- 
tion and  that  was  the  track.  So  the  boy  very  adroitly 
followed  the  wheel  of  some  favourite  steed  with  the 
lose  of  the  oilcan.  But,  you  ask,  why  not  oil  the  axles 
at  the  end  of  the  ride?  Ah,  but  everybody  is  resting 
then,  the  horses  and  the  orchestra;  besides  the  axles 
ire  no  longer  squeaking. 

But  let's  have  that  delicious  tid-bit — the  orchestra. 
After  the  flute-player,  I  name  them  in  the  order  of  their 
effective  strength;  there  was  the  man  who  played  on 
the  fiddle,  which  ages  ago. in  these  parts  had  slipped 
from  its  customary  place  under  the  chin  to  the  hollow 
of  the  left  shoulder.  Then  came  the  man  who  shook 
a  gourd  filled  with  small  pebbles  and  the  drummer 
who  beat  on  a  huge  section  of  bamboo  with  two  pieces 
of  wood  like  chop  sticks.  These  last  two  instruments 
were  extremely  effective,  mainly  because  they  were  of 
African  origin  and  played  upon  by  African  experts. 
They  were  artists  of  rhythm — a  metronome  could  have 
done  no  better.    In  the  hands  of  the  drummer  the  bam- 


206  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

boo  echoed  the  jungle  from  the  light  patter  of  rain 
drops  on  palm  fronds  to  the  oncoming  thunder-roll  of 
an  impending  storm.  From  the  complacent  beating  of 
time  this  master  lashed  himself  into  a  fury  as  the  or- 
chestra periodically  rose  to  a  climax  under  the  spur 
of  the  flute-player.  But  it  was  the  gourd  which  held 
my  eye  longest.  The  hard  surface  of  the  gourd,  a 
calabash  about  eighteen  inches  long,  was  banded  with 
deep  grooves  across  which  the  performer  rubbed  his 
thumbnail,  producing  a  noise  that  reminded  me  of  the 
dry  grass  of  the  prairies  where  the  rattle-snake  sounds 
his  note  of  warning.  For  an  instant  the  gourd  would 
be  poised  above  the  head  of  the  player  to  suddenly 
swoop,  twirling  and  whistling,  through  a  fathom  of 
orbit  to  fetch  up  for  a  moment  hugged  in  the  curving 
form  of  its  master  where  it  gurgled  and  hissed  under 
the  tickle  of  a  thumbnail  of  hideous  power. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  I  would  walk  out  across 
the  savanna  to  the  still  waters  of  the  carenage — I  was 
living  in  such  a  civilised  state  that  canoe  cruise,  whal- 
ers, and  Caribs  seemed  to  have  slipped  back  into  the 
remote  haze  of  memory — where  an  aged  steamer,  clip- 
per-stemmed and  with  a  ship's  counter,  lay  rusting  at 
her  mooring,  her  square  ports  and  rail  with  ginger- 
bread white-painted  life-net,  a  delight  to  one  who  revels 
in  a  past  that  is  just  near  enough  to  be  intimate. 
From  the  carenage  my  walk  would  continue  along  the 
quay,  past  the  barracks  of  the  naval  station  across  the 
street  from  which  a  tribe  of  cosy  little  cabarets  blinked 
cheerfully  into  the  night  through  open  doors  and  win- 
dows. 

Before  long  a  quartet  of  French  sailors,  wearing 


MARTINIQUE— FORT  DE  FRANCE        207 

Peter  Thompson  caps  with  red  or  blue  fuzzy  tassels 
set  atop  like  butter-balls,  would  come  singing  up  the 
street  and  swing  into  one  or  another  of  the  cabarets 
as  though  drawn  by  some  invisible  current,  the  song 
being  continued  to  its  end. 

If  the  singing  were  good — and  it  usually  was — the 
little  room  would  gradually  fill,  to  the  joy  of  the  beam- 
ing landlord.  The  song  finished,  there  would  be  re- 
freshments and  then  one  of  the  audience  would  get 
up  and  sing  some  catchy  little  Parisian  tune  and  if  there 
were  sufficient  talent  among  those  present,  the  enter- 
tainment might  last  long  after  the  goodwife  had  with- 
drawn with  her  knitting  and  her  children  and  until  the 
landlord  himself  had  closed  the  shutters  outside  and 
was  making  furtive  attempts  to  put  his  place  in  order. 
With  the  stroke  of  ten,  the  guests  would  pour  out  and 
the  door  would  close  behind  them  to  cut  off  its  rec- 
tangular beam  of  light  and  leave  the  street  in  dark- 
ness. 

But  this  life  in  Fort  de  France  was  becoming  too 
demoralising  and  I  should  soon  be  too  lazy  to  cook 
another  meal.  The  rainy  week  was  over  and  I  bade 
adieu  to  the  statue  of  Josephine,  extracted  my  outfit 
from  the  jealous  care  of  the  duanes,  and  sailed  for 
the  ruined  city  of  St.  Pierre. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ST.   PIERRE — PELEE 

DURING  my  week  of  idleness  I  had  found  time 
to  coax  the  Yakaboo  into  an  amiable  mood  of 
tightness — not  by  the  aid  of  cabarets,  however,  but 
with  white  lead  and  varnish  and  paint  for  which  she 
seemed  to  have  an  insatiable  thirst.  I  was  always  glad 
to  be  sailing  again  and,  to  show  the  fickleheartedness 
of  the  sailor,  I  had  no  sooner  rounded  Negro  Point  in 
a  stiff  breeze  than  Fort  de  France — now  out  of  sight — 
took  her  place  among  other  memories  I  had  left  be- 
hind. 

The  thread  of  my  cruise  was  once  more  taken  up 
and  I  was  back  into  the  canoe,  enjoying  the  lee  coast 
panorama  with  my  folded  chart  in  my  lap  for  a  guide 
book.  It  was  early  in  the  afternoon  when  I  made  out 
the  little  beacon  on  Sainte  Marthe  Point  beyond  which 
lay  the  roadstead  of  St.  Pierre.  A  heavy,  misty  rain 
squall — a  whisk  of  dirty  lint — was  rolling  down  the 
side  of  Pelee  and  I  was  wondering  whether  or  no  I 
should  have  to  reef  when  something  else  drew  my  at- 
tention.* Pulling  out  from  a  little  fishing  village  beyond 
Carbet  was  a  boatload  of  my  old  friends  the  duanes, 
a  different  lot,  to  be  sure,  but  of  the  same  species  as 
those  of  Fort  de  France.    They  were  evidently  making 

208 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  209 

desperate  efforts  to  head  me  off  and  as  long  as  they 
were  inshore  and  to  windward  of  me  they  had  the  ad- 
vantage. Little  by  little  I  trimmed  my  sheets  till  I 
was  sailing  close-hauled. 

There  were  eight  or  ten  of  the  dusky  fellows  and 
they  fetched  their  boat  directly  on  my  course  and  a  hun- 
dred feet  away.  This  was  some  more  of  their  con- 
founded nonsense  and  I  decided  to  give  them  the  slip. 
I  motioned  to  them  to  head  into  the  wind  so  that  I 
might  run  alongside,  and  while  they  were  swinging  the 
bow  of  their  heavy  boat,  I  slipped  by  their  stern,  so 
close  that  I  could  have  touched  their  rudder,  eased  off 
my  sheets,  and  the  Yakaboo,  spinning  on  her  belly, 
showed  them  as  elusive  a  stern  as  they  had  ever  tried 
to  follow.  It  took  them  a  few  seconds  to  realise  that 
they  had  been  fooled  and  they  then  proceeded  to 
straighten  out  their  boat  in  my  wake  and  follow  in  hot 
pursuit.  They  hoisted  their  sail  but  it  only  hindered 
their  rowing,  for  the  heeling  of  the  boat  put  the  port 
bank  out  of  work  altogether  while  the  men  to  wind- 
ward could  scarcely  reach  the  water  with  the  blades  of 
their  oars.  It  would  only  be  truthful  to  say  that  I 
laughed  immoderately  and  applied  my  fingers  to  my 
nose  in  the  same  manner  that  midshipman  Green  salut- 
ed his  superior  officer. 

I  was  soon  lost  to  their  sight  in  the  squall  which  had 
now  spread  over  the  roadstead.  Rain  and  mist  were 
ushered  along  by  a  stiff  breeze.  Under  this  friendly 
cover  I  held  on  for  a  bit  and  then  came  about  on  the 
inshore  tack,  thinking  that  the  duanes  would  little  sus- 
pect that  I  would  come  ashore  under  their  very  noses. 
It  was  not  a  bad  guess  for  I  afterwards  learned  that 


210  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

they  had  sent  word  to  the  next  station  to  the  north  to 
watch  for  me. 

Although  I  could  not  see  more  than  a  hundred  feet 
ahead  of  me,  I  knew  by  the  floating  pumice  that  I  must 
be  well  into  the  roadstead  of  St.  Pierre.  I  snatched  up 
a  piece  out  of  the  sea  and  put  it  in  my  pocket  as  a  sou- 
venir. Then  we  passed  out  of  the  mist  as  from  a  wall 
and  I  saw  the  ruins  of  St.  Pierre  before  me,  not  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  away.  A  heavy  mist  on  the  morne  above 
hung  like  a  pall  over  the  ruined  city  cutting  it  off  from 
the  country  behind. 

It  was  truly  a  city  of  the  dead,  the  oily  lifeless  waters 
of  the  bay  lapping  at  its  broken  edges  and  the  mist 
holding  it  as  in  a  frame,  no  land,  no  sky — just  the 
broken  walls  of  houses.  The  mist  above  me  began  to 
thin  out  and  the  vapours  about  the  ruins  rolled  away  till 
only  those  on  the  morne  remained  and  the  sun  shining 
through  arched  a  rainbow  over  St.  Pierre,  one  end 
planted  by  the  tumbled  statue  of  Our  Lady  and  the 
other  in  the  bed  of  the  Roxelane.  It  was  like  a  promise 
of  a  better  life  to  come,  to  those  who  had  perished.  At 
first  glance,  the  extent  of  the  ruins  did  not  seem  great, 
but  as  I  ran  closer  to  shore  I  saw  that  for  a  mile  and 
a  half  to  the  northward  broken  walls  were  covered  by 
an  inundation  of  green  foliage  which  had  been  stead- 
ily advancing  for  nearly  ten  years. 

You  may  but  vaguely  recall  the  startling  news  that 
St.  Pierre,  a  town  hitherto  but  little  known,  on  a  West 
Indian  island  equally  little  known,  was  destroyed  in 
one  fiery  gasp  by  a  volcano  which  sprang  to  fame  for 
having  killed  some  twenty-five  thousand  people  in  the 
space  of  a  minute  or  two. 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  211 

For  nearly  a  month  the  volcano  had  been  grumbling, 
but  who  coujd  suspect  that  from  a  crater  nearly  five 
miles  away  a  destruction  should  come  so  swift  that  no 
one  could  escape  to  tell  the  tale?  When  I  was  in  Fort 
de  France,  I  found  a  copy  of  Les  Colonaries,  of 
Wednesday,  May  the  7th,  1902,  the  day  before  the 
explosion  of  Pelee.  Under  the  heading,  "Une  Inter- 
view de  M.  Landes,"  it  says: — "M.  Landes,  the  dis- 
tinguished professor  of  the  Lyceum,  very  willingly  al- 
lowed us  to  interview  him  yesterday  in  regard  to  the 
volcanic  eruption  of  Mount  Pelee  .  .  .  Vesuvius,  adds 
M.  Landes,  only  had  rare  victims  (this  is  a  literal 
translation).  Pompeii  was  evacuated  in  time  and  they 
have  found  but  few  bodies  in  the  buried  cities.  Mount 
Pelee  does  not  offer  more  danger  to  the  inhabitants  of 
St.  Pierre  than  Vesuvius  to  those  of  Naples." 

The  next  morning,  a  few  minutes  before  eight 
o'clock,  that  awful  holocaust  occurred,  a  bare  descrip- 
tion of  which  we  get  from  the  survivors  of  the  Rod- 
dam,  the  only  vessel  to  escape  of  sixteen  that  were  lying 
in  the  roadstead.  Even  the  Roddam  which  had  steam 
up  and  backed  out,  leaving  her  ground  tackle  behind, 
paid  her  toll  and  when  she  limped  into  Fort  de  France 
two  hours  later,  a  phantom  ship,  her  decks  were  cov- 
ered with  ashes  still  hot  and  her  woodwork  was  still 
smoking  from  the  fire. 

The  story  of  the  survivors  was  quickly  told.  The 
volcano  had  been  rumbling,  according  to  its  custom  of 
late,  when  about  a  quarter  before  eight  there  was  an  ex- 
plosion in  which  the  whole  top  of  the  mountain  seemed 
blown  away.  A  thick  black  cloud  rose  up  and  from 
under  it  a  sheet  of  flame  rolled  down  the  mountainside, 


212  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

across  the  city,  and  out  over  the  roadstead.  There  had 
been  barely  time  to  give  the  signal  to  go  astern  and 
the  few  passengers  of  ready  wit  had  hardly  covered 
their  heads  with  blankets  when  the  ship  was  momen- 
tarily engulfed  in  flame.  It  was  all  over  in  a  few  sec- 
onds and  those  who  had  not  been  caught  on  deck  or  in 
their  cabins  with  their  ports  open,  came  up  to  the  blis- 
tering deck  to  behold  the  city  which  they  had  looked  at 
carelessly  enough  a  few  minutes  before,  now  a  burning 
mass  of  ruins. 

Fortunately  some  one  had  been  near  the  capstan  and 
had  tripped  the  pawls  so  that  the  chain  had  run  out 
freely.  Otherwise  the  Roddam  would  have  met  the 
fate  of  the  cable  ship  Grappler  and  the  Roraima  and 
the  sailing  vessels  that  were  unable  to  leave  their  moor- 
ings. After  she  had  backed  out,  the  Roddam  steamed 
into  the  roadstead  again  and  followed  the  shore  to 
discover,  if  possible,  some  sign  of  life.  But  the  heat 
from  the  smouldering  city  was  so  great  that  there  could 
be  no  hope  of  finding  a  living  being  there.  The 
steamer  then  turned  southward  to  seek  aid  for  her  own 
dying  victims. 

It  was  the  suddenness  of  the  catastrophe  that  made  it 
the  more  awful.  One  man  whom  I  met  in  Fort  de 
France  told  me  that  he  was  talking  at  the  telephone  to 
a  friend  in  St.  Pierre  when  the  conversation  was  in- 
terrupted by  a  shriek  followed  by  a  silence  which 
brought  no  answer  to  his  question.  Rushing  from  his 
office,  he  found  others  who  had  had  the  same  experi- 
ence. There  was  no  word  to  be  had  from  St.  Pierre 
and  the  noise  of  the  explosion  which  came  from  over 
the  hills  confirmed  the  fear  that  some  terrible  disaster 


m  i 


<  c    c 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  213 

had  befallen  the  sister  city.  It  was  not  until  the  Rod- 
dam  steamed  into  port  that  the  people  of  Fort  de 
France  learned  just  what  had  happened. 

I  have  said  that  there  was  no  survivor  of  St.  Pierre 
to  tell  the  tale  thereof,  but  I  may  be  in  error.  They 
tell  a  fanciful  tale  of  a  lone  prisoner  who  was  rescued 
from  a  cell,  deep  down  in  the  ground,  some  days  after 
the  first  explosion  and  before  subsequent  explosions 
destroyed  even  this  retreat.  His  name  is  variously 
given  as  Auguste  Ciparis  and  Joseph  Surtout,  and  in  a 
magazine  story  "full  of  human  interest  and  passion," 
which  could  not  have  been  written  by  the  man  himself, 
as  Ludger  Sylbaris.  I  was  told  in  confidence,  how- 
ever, by  a  reputable  citizen  of  Fort  de  France,  that  the 
story  was  in  all  probability  gotten  up  for  the  benefit 
of  our  yellow  journals. 

Reviewing  these  things  in  my  mind,  I  ran  alongside 
the  new  jetty  built  since  the  eruption  and  hauled  up 
the  Yakaboo  under  the  roofing  that  covers  the  shore 
end.  There  were  about  ten  people  there,  nearly  the 
entire  population  of  what  was  once  a  city  of  forty 
thousand. 

These  people,  I  found,  lived  in  a  few  rooms  recon- 
structed among  the  ruins,  not  with  any  hope  of  re- 
building but  because  at  this  point  there  is  a  natural 
outlet  for  the  produce  of  the  rich  valleys  behind  St. 
Pierre  which  is  sent  in  droghers  to  Fort  de  France. 
Among  them  I  found  a  guide,  a  huge  Martinique  sac- 
catra,  who  knew  Pelee  well,  he  said,  and  we  arranged 
to  make  the  ascent  in  the  morning. 

I  have  always  been  fond  of  moonlight  walks  in 
strange  places  and  as  I  cooked  my  supper  I  said  to  my- 


214  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

self,  "That  is  how  I  shall  first  see  the  dead  city — by- 
moonlight."  As  I  struck  in  from  the  jetty  I  knew  that 
no  negro  dared  venture  forth  in  such  a  place  at  night 
and  that  I  was  alone  in  a  stillness  made  all  the  more 
desolate  by  the  regular  boom  of  the  surf  followed  by 
the  rumble  as  it  rolled  back  over  the  massive  pavement 
of  the  water  front.  There  was  no  human  sound  and 
yet  I  felt  the  ghost  of  it  as  I  heard  the  noise  of  the 
sea  and  knew  that  that  same  sound  had  mingled  for 
over  a  century  with  the  sounds  of  the  cafes  of  the  Rue 
Victor  Hugo  where  I  was  now  walking,  and  had  been 
a  roar  of  second  nature  to  the  ears  of  the  thousands 
who  had  lived  in  the  cubes  of  space  before  my  eyes, 
now  unconfined  by  the  walls  and  roofs  which  had  made 
them  rooms. 

The  moon  rode. high,  giving  a  ghostly  daylight  by 
which  I  could  distinguish  the  smallest  objects  with 
startling  ease.  The  streets  were  nearly  all  of  them 
cleared,  the  rubbish  having  been  thrown  back  over  the 
walls  that  stood  only  breast  high.  Here  and  there  a 
doorway  would  be  partly  cleared  so  that  I  could  step 
into  the  first  floor  of  a  house  and  then  mounting  the 
debris,  travel  like  a  nocturnal  chamois  from  pile  to 
pile,  and  from  house  to  house.  There  was  not  the 
slightest  sign  of  even  a  splinter  of  wood.  A  marble 
floor,  a  bit  of  coloured  wall,  the  sign  of  a  cafe  painted 
over  a  doorway  and  the  narrow  sidewalks  reminded 
me  of  Pompeii  and  had  there  been  the  familiar  chariot 
ruts  in  the  roadways  the  illusion  would  have  been  com- 
plete. There  was  a  kinship  between  the  two ;  they  had 
alike  been  wicked  cities  and  it  seemed  that  the  wrath  of 
God  had  descended  upon  them  through  the  agency  of 


r 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  215 

a  natural  phenomenon  which  had  hung  over  them  and 
to  which  they  had  paid  no  heed. 

I  wondered  how  many  of  the  dead  were  under  these 
piles  of  debris.  At  one  place  I  came  to  a  spot  where 
some  native  had  been  digging  tiles  from  a  fallen  roof. 
There  was  a  neat  pile  of  whole  tiles  ready  to  be  taken 
away  while  scattered  about  were  the  broken  pieces 
which  would  be  of  no  use.  Where  the  spade  had  last 
struck  protruded  the  cranium  of  one  of  the  victims  of 
that  fateful  May  morning. 

I  picked  my  way  to  the  cimitiere  where  I  loafed  in 
the  high  noon  of  the  moon  which  cast  short  shadows 
that  hugged  the  bases  of  the  tombs  and  gravestones. 
There  was  a  feeling  of  comfort  in  that  moonlight  loaf 
in  the  cimitiere  of  St.  Pierre  and  had  I  thought  of  it  in 
time  I  might  have  brought  my  blankets  and  slept  there. 
In  comparison  with  the  ruined  town  about  it,  there 
was  the  very  opposite  feeling  to  the  spookiness  which 
one  is  supposed  to  have  in  a  graveyard. 

I  sat  on  the  steps  of  an  imposing  mausoleum  and 
loaded  my  pipe  with  the  Tabac  de  Martinique  which  I 
smoked  in  blissful  revery.  Here  would  I  be  disturbed 
by  no  mortal  soul  and  as  for  the  dead  about  and  be- 
neath me  were  they  not  the  legitimate  inhabitants  of 
this  place?  Those  poor  fellows  over  whom  I  had  un- 
wittingly scrambled  might  have  some  reason  to  haunt 
the  places  of  their  demise,  but  these  of  the  cimitiere 
had  no  call  to  play  pranks  on  a  visitor  who  chanced 
in  of  a  moonlight  night.  I  was  not  in  a  joking  mood 
— neither  did  I  feel  serious. 

A  sort  of  moon  dreaminess  came  over  me — I  felt 
detached.     I  saw  my  form  hunched  against  the  face  of 


216  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

the  mausoleum  with  my  long  legs  stretched  out  before 
it,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  be  I.  I  was  a  sort  of  spirit 
floating  in  the  air  about  and  wondering  what  the  real 
life  of  the  dead  city  before  me  had  been.  I  should 
have  liked  to  have  the  company  of  the  one  whose 
bones  rested  (comfortably,  I  hoped)  in  the  tomb  be- 
hind me  and  to  have  questioned  him  about  the  St. 
Pierre  that  he  had  known.  But  I  could  only  romance 
to  myself. 

The  mere  bringing  down  of  my  pipe  from  my  mouth 
so  that  my  glance  happened  to  fall  on  its  faithful  out- 
line with  its  modest  silver  band  with  my  mark  on  it 
brought  me  to  myself.  The  pipe  seemed  more  a  part 
of  my  person  than  my  hands  and  knees  and  I  knew 
that  I  was  merely  living  through  an  incident  of  a  canoe 
cruise.  I  sat  there  and  smoked  and  idled  till  the  moon 
began  to  shimmer  the  sea  before  me  and  with  her  light 
in  my  face  I  found  my  way  back  to  the  jetty  and  the 
Yakaboo. 

I  was  awakened  at  five  by  my  guide  who  had  with 
him  a  young  boy.  It  was  always  a  case  of  Greek 
against  Greek  with  these  fellows  and  I  reiterated  our 
contract  of  the  night  before.  His  first  price  was  ex- 
orbitant and  I  had  beaten  him  down  as  far  as  I  dared 
— to  fifteen  francs.  I  find  that  it  is  a  mistake  to 
pull  the  native  down  too  far  for  he  is  apt  to  feel  that 
you  have  taken  advantage  of  him  and  will  become  sul- 
len and  grudging  in  his  efforts. 

While  I  ate  my  scanty  breakfast  I  impressed  upon 
him  the  fact  that  I  was  paying  for  his  services  only 
and  that  if  the  boy  wished  to  follow  that  was  his 
affair.     He  prided  himself  on  a  very  sparse  knowledge 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  217 

of  English  which  he  insisted  upon  using.  When  I 
had  finished  he  turned  to  his  boy  and  said,  "E-eh? 
il  est  bon  g argon!"  To  which  I  replied,  "Mais  oulT 
which  means  a  lot  in  Martinique.  The  boy  came  with 
us  and  proved  to  be  a  blessing  later  on. 

The  moon  had  long  since  gone  and  we  started  along 
the  canal-like  Rue  Victor  Hugo  with  the  pale  dawn 
dimming  the  stars  over  us  one  by  one.  We  crossed 
the  Roxelane  on  the  bridge,  which  is  still  intact,  and 
then  descended  a  flight  of  steps  between  broken  walls 
to  the  beach  and  left  the  town  behind  us.  Another 
mile  brought  us  to  the  Seche  (dry)  Riviere  just  as  the 
rose  of  dawn  shot  through  the  notches  of  the  moun- 
tains to  windward.  When  we  came  to  the  Blanche 
Riviere,  along  the  bed  of  which  we  began  the  ascent 
of  the  volcano  as  in  Saint  Vincent,  the  sun  stood  up 
boldly  from  the  mountain  tops  and  gave  promise  of  a 
terrific  heat  which  I  hoped  would  burn  up  the  mist 
that  had  been  hanging  over  the  crater  of  Pelee  ever 
since  I  had  come  to  Martinique.  I  did  not  then  know 
of  the  prophetic  line  which  I  discovered  later  under 
an  old  outline  of  Martinique  from  John  Barbot's  ac- 
count of  the  voyage  of  Columbus — "the  Mount  Pelee 
in  a  mist  and  always  so."   • 

Were  I  to  go  into  the  detail  of  our  ascent  of  Pelee 
you  would  find  it  a  monotonous  repetition  for  the  most 
part  of  the  Soufriere  climb.  Pelee  was  a  higher  moun- 
tain and  the  climb  was  harder.  There  was  scarcely 
any  vegetation  even  on  the  lower  slopes,  much  to  my 
relief,  for  Martinique  is  the  home  of  the  fer-de-lance. 
I  had  with  me  a  little  tube  of  white  crystals  which  I 
could  inject  into  my  abdomen  in  case  I  were  bitten  by 


218  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

one  of  these  fellows  but  I  cannot  say  that  even  for 
the  novelty  of  using  it  did  I  relish  having  my  body  a 
battle  ground  for  the  myriad  agents  of  Pasteur  against 
the  poison  of  one  of  these  vipers. 

The  sun  did  not  burn  up  the  mist  and  at  a  height  of 
3600  feet  we  entered  the  chilly  fog,  leaving  our  food 
and  camera  behind  us.  The  remaining  eight  hundred 
feet  made  up  the  most  arduous  climbing  I  have  ever 
experienced.  We  were  now  going  up  the  steep  sides 
of  the  crater  cone  made  of  volcanic  dust,  slippery  from 
a  constant  contact  with  mist  and  covered  with  a  hair- 
like moss,  like  the  slime  that  grows  on  rocks  in  the  sea 
near  human  habitations.  I  took  to  falling  down  so 
many  times  that  it  finally  dawned  upon  me  that  I  would 
do  much  better  if  I  crawled  and  in  this  way  I  finished 
the  last  four  hundred  feet.  At  times  I  dug  my  toes 
well  into  the  side  of  the  crater  and  rested  half-lying, 
half-standing,  my  body  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  de- 
grees. 

Although  I  could  scarcely  see  three  yards  ahead  of 
me  there  was  no  need  of  the  guides  to  show  the  way — 
there  was  only  one  way  and  that  was  up.  The  negroes 
were  a  little  ahead  of  me  and  I  remember  admiring 
the  work  of  their  great  toes  which  they  stuck  into  the 
side  of  the  mountain  as  a  wireman  jabs  his  spikes  into 
a  telegraph  pole.  When  I  had  entered  the  cloud  cap 
I  had  come  out  of  the  hot  sun  dripping  with  perspira- 
tion and  I  put  on  my  leather  jacket  to  prevent  the 
direct  contact  of  the  chilly  mist  upon  my  body.  I  was 
chilled  to  the  bone  and  could  not  have  been  wetter. 
I  could  feel  the  sweat  of  my  exertions  streaming  down 
under  my  shirt  and  could  see  the  moisture  of  the  con- 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  219 

• 

densed  mist  trickling  down  the  outside  of  my  coat.  No 
film  would  have  lived  through  this. 

As  an  intermittent  accompaniment  to  the  grunts  of 
the  negroes  I  could  hear  the  chatter  of  their  teeth. 
Suddenly  they  gave  a  shout  and  looking  upward  I 
saw  the  edge  of  the  rim  a  body  length  away.  Another 
effort  and  I  was  lying  beside  them,  the  three  of  us 
panting  like  dogs,  our  heads  hanging  over  the  sul- 
phurous pit.  What  was  below  was  unknown  to  us — 
we  could  scarcely  see  ten  feet  down  the  inside  of  the 
crater,  while  around  us  swirled  a  chilly  mist  freezing 
the  very  strength  out  of  us.  A  few  minutes  were 
enough  and  we  slid  down  the  side  of  the  crater  again 
to  sunlight  and  food. 

Looking  up  at  Pelee  from  the  streets  of  St.  Pierre, 
one  felt  that  surely  no  destruction  from  a  crater  so  far 
off  could  reach  the  city  before  safety  might  be  sought; 
but  as  I  sat  upon  the  very  slope  of  the  crater  I  could 
easily  imagine  a  burst  of  flaming  gas  that  could  roll 
down  that  mountainside  and  engulf  the  city  below  it  in 
a  minute  or  two  of  time. 

It  was  half  way  down  the  mountain  that  the  boy 
proved  a  blessing  for  we  lost  our  way  and  suddenly 
found  ourselves  at  the  end  of  a  butte  whose  precipitous 
sides  fell  a  sheer  five  hundred  feet  in  all  directions 
around  us,  except  that  by  which  we  had  come.  For  an 
hour  we  retraced  our  steps  and  cruised  back  and  forth 
till  at  last  the  boy  discovered  a  crevasse  into  which 
we  lowered  ourselves  by  means  of  the  strong  lianes 
which  hung  down  the  sides  till  we  reached  the  bottom 
where  we  found  a  cool  stream  trickling  through  giant 
ferns.     We  lapped  the   delicious  water  like   thirsty 


ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

dogs.  Again  we  were  in  the  dry  river  bottom  of  the 
Blanche  and  we  took  to  the  beach  for  St.  Pierre  in  the 
heat  of  the  middle  afternoon. 

The  climb  had  been  a  disappointment  for  I  had  par- 
ticularly wished  to  find  if  there  were  any  trace  left  of 
the  immense  monolith  which  had  been  forced  above  the 
edge  of  the  crater  at  the  time  of  the  eruption  and  had 
subsided  again.  I  also  wanted  a  photograph  of  the 
crater  which  is  less  than  a  fourth  the  size  of  the  Souf- 
riere  of  Saint  Vincent.  But,  as  you  may  know,  this 
is  distinctly  a  part  of  the  game  and  there  is  no  need 
of  casting  glooms  here  and  there  over  a  cruise  for  the 
want  of  a  picture  or  two. 

So  I  forgot  the  photograph  which  I  did  not  get  of 
PeleVs  crater  and  thought  of  the  refreshing  glass  or 
two  of  that  most  excellent  febrifuge  "Quinquina  des 
Princes"  which  I  might  find  at  the  little  inn  that  had 
been  erected  over  the  ashes  of  its  former  self.  This 
inn  had  been  one  of  the  meaner  hotels  of  St.  Pierre, 
close  to  the  water  front  and  facing  the  Rue  Victor 
Hugo.  When  Pelee  began  to  rumble,  the  proprietor 
had  sent  his  wife  and  son  to  a  place  of  safety,  but  he 
himself  had  remained,  not  that  he  did  not  fear  the 
volcano  but  to  guard  his  little  all  from  the  marauding 
that  was  sure  to  follow  a  more  or  less  complete  evacu- 
ation of  the  city.  It  had  cost  him  his  life  and  now 
the  widow  and  her  son  were  eking  out  an  existence  by 
supplying  the  wants  of  the  few  who  chance  to  pass  that 
way. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  we 
reached  the  inn  and  it  was  still  very  hot.  I  stood  for 
a  few  minutes,  quite  still,  in  the  sun  in  order  to  cool 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  221 

off  slowly  and  to  dry  my  skin  before  I  entered  the  grate- 
ful shade  of  the  roof  that  partly  overhung  the  road. 
In  doing  this  I  won  great  respect  from  my  saccatra 
guide  and  the  boy,  both  of  whom  did  likewise,  for  they 
feared  the  effect  of  the  exertions  of  the  climb  and  the 
subsequent  walk  along  the  hot  beach  quite  as  much  as 
I  did. 

It  was  here  that  I  received  my  most  forlorn  impres- 
sion of  St.  Pierre.  The  widow's  son,  a  likeable  young 
fellow  of  about  eighteen,  had  stepped  out  into  the 
road  to  talk  to  me  when  a  pathetic  form  in  a  colourless 
wrapper  slunk  from  out  the  shadows  of  the  walls  and 
spoke  to  him.  It  was  evidently  me  about  whom  she 
was  curious,  and  he  answered  her  questions  in  the 
patois  which  he  knew  I  could  not  understand. 

She  was  a  woman  of  perhaps  forty,  partly  demented 
by  the  loss  of  her  entire  family  and  all  her  friends  in 
the  terrible  calamity  of  nine  years  before.  Her  wan- 
dering eye  bore  the  most  hopeless  expression  I  have 
ever  seen  and  her  grey,  almost  white  hair,  hung,  un- 
combed for  many  a  day,  over  her  shoulders.  Her  feet 
were  bare,  she  wore  no  hat  and  for  all  that  I  could  see 
the  faded  wrapper  was  her  only  covering.  Her  ques- 
tions answered,  she  stood  regarding  me  silently  for  a 
moment  and  then  passing  one  hand  over  the  other 
palms  upward  so  that  the  fingers  slipped  over  each 
other,  she  said,  "II  est  fou — few." 

That  night  I  read  myself  to  sleep  in  the  cockpit  of 
the  Yakaboo  with  my  candle  lamp  hung  over  my  head 
from  the  stumpy  mizzen  mast.  But  between  the  pages 
of  the  wanderings  of  Ulysses,  which  Whitfield  Smith 
had  given  me  at  Carriacou,  slunk  the  figure  of  the 


ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

woman  who  had  called  me  "crazy" — utterly  forlorn. 

Remove  the  whole  of  Mount  Pelee  and  you  take 
away  the  northern  end  of  Martinique  whose  shores 
from  St.  Pierre  to  the  Lorain  River  describe  an  arc  of 
225 °  with  the  crater  of  the  volcano  for  its  center. 
When  I  left  St.  Pierre  the  next  morning,  then,  I  was 
in  reality  encircling  the  base  of  Pelee  along  135 °  of 
that  arc  to  Grande  Riviere.  There  lived  Monsieur 
Waddy  of  the  Union  Sportive  who  had  made  me 
promise  that  I  would  spend  at  least  one  night  with  him 
before  I  sailed  for  the  next  island. 

"You  can  make  the  depart  for  Dominique  from 
Grande  Riviere,"  he  told  me.  "J  will  keep  a  lookout 
for  you."  This  would  be  entirely  unnecessary,  I  told 
him.  Could  I  get  the  canoe  ashore  all  right?  "Oh, 
yes!  I  shall  watch  for  you."  There  was  some  reser- 
vation in  that  "Oh,  yes!"  For  his  own  good  reasons 
he  did  not  tell  me  of  the  terrific  surf  that  boomed  con- 
tinually on  the  beach  where  he  lived — but  it  did  not 
matter  after  all. 

The  trade  in  the  guise  of  a  land  breeze  lifted  us  out 
of  the  roadstead  of  St.  Pierre  and  we  soon  doubled 
Point  La  Mare.  A  mile  or  so  up  the  coast  the  white 
walls  of  Precheur  gleamed  in  the  morning  sunlight. 
One  cannot  read  far  concerning  these  islands  without 
making  the  friendship  of  Pere  Labat  through  the  pages 
of  his  five  little  rusty  old  volumes.  They  are  written 
in  the  French  of  his  day — not  at  all  difficult  to  under- 
stand— and  the  reading  of  them  compelled  me  to  form 
a  personal  regard  for  this  Jesuit  priest  from  his 
straightforward  manner  of  writing. 

We  were  now  in  the  country  of  Pere  Labat  and  Pre- 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE 

heur,  before  us,  was  where  in  1693  ne  nac*  spent  the 
irst  few  months  of  his  twelve  years  in  the  West  Indies. 
Du  Parquet,  who  owned  Martinique  at  that  time,  gave 
his  parish  to  the  Jesuit  order  of  uLe  Precheur"  in 
[654  and  it  was  only  natural  that  here  Labat  should 
become  acquainted  with  the  manners  and  customs  of 
die  people  before  he  took  up  his  duties  in  the  parish 
of  Macouba  near  Grande  Riviere.  But  here  the  wind 
failed  me,  it  was  Pere  Labat  having  his  little  joke, 
doubtless,  and  the  lack  of  it  nearly  got  me  into  trouble. 
I  had  been  rowing  along  the  shore  for  some  time,  fol- 
lowing with  my  eyes  the  beach  road  that  the  priest  had 
known  so  well,  and  had  come  to  Pearl  Rock.  There 
is  a  channel  between  the  rock  and  the  shore  and  as  I 
looked  at  my  chart,  folded  with  that  particular  part 
of  the  island  faced  upwards,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
name  was  somehow  familiar. 

Then  I  began  to  recollect  some  tale  about  an  Ameri- 
can privateer  that  had  dodged  an  English  frigate  by 
slipping  through  this  very  place  at  night.     I  was  try- 
ing to  recall  the  details  when  a  premonition  made  me 
00k  around.     There,  silently  waiting  for  me  not  four 
trokes    away,    was    a    boatload    of    those    accursed 
Inane s!    They  had  been  watching  for  me  since,  two 
lays  before,  they  had  received  a  message  from  their 
confreres  down  the  coast  that  I  had  either  been  lost 
n  the  squall  off  St.  Pierre  or  was  hiding  somewhere 
tlong  the  north  coast.     With  an  instinct  that  needed 
10  telegram  from  my  brain,  my  right  arm  dug  its  oar 
leep  into  the  water  while  my  left  swung  the  canoe 
iround  like  a  skater  who  turns  on  one  foot  while  the 


224*  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

other  indolently  floats  over  its  mate.  The  left  oar 
seemed  to  complete  the  simile. 

While  the  duanes  were  recovering  from  their  sur- 
prise at  this  unexpected  movement  of  the  canoe  which 
had  been  on  the  point  of  boarding  them,  I  pulled  with 
the  desperation  of  a  fly  trying  to  crawl  off  the  sticky 
field  of  a  piece  of  tanglefoot — but  with  considerably 
more  success  as  to  speed.  With  a  few  yanks — one 
could  not  call  them  strokes — I  was  clear  of  the  duanes 
and  I  knew  they  could  not  catch  me.  But  they  tried 
hard  while  I  innocently  asked  if  they  wished  to  com- 
municate with  me.  "Diable!"  they  wanted  to  see  my 
papers  and  passport.  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  stop 
just  then,  I  told  them — they  were  easing  up  now — and 
if  they  wished  to  see  my  papers  they  could  do  so  when 
I  landed  at  Grande  Riviere.  And  so  the  second  batch 
of  duanes  was  left  in  the  lurch. 

Along  the  four  miles  of  coast  from  Pearl  Rock  to 
Grande  Riviere  there  is  no  road,  and  the  slopes  of 
Pelee,  which  break  down  at  the  sea,  forming  some  of 
the  most  wonderful  cliffs  and  gorges  I  have  ever  seen, 
are  as  wild  as  the  day  when  Columbus  first  saw  the 
island.  But  if  you  would  care  to  see  these  cliffs  you 
must  go  by  water  as  I  did,  for  were  you  to  penetrate 
the  thickets  of  the  mountain  slopes  you  would  not  go 
far — for  this  is  the  haunt  of  the  fer-de-lance.  In  start- 
ing the  cultivation  of  a  small  patch  of  vanilla,  which 
grows  in  a  nearly  wild  state,  Waddy  killed  a  hundred! 
of  these  vipers  in  the  space  of  three  months.  But  I 
gave  no  thought  to  the  snakes — it  was  the  cliffs  thatj 
held  me. 

Imagine  a  perpendicular  wall  ranging  from  two 


. 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  225 

four  hundred  feet  in  height  and  covered  with  a  hang- 
ing of  vegetation  seemingly  suspended  from  the  very 
top.  No  bare  face  of  rock  or  soil,  just  the  deep  green 
that  seemed  to  pour  from  the  mountain  slope  down  the 
face  of  the  cliff  and  to  the  bright  yellow  sandy  beaches 
stretching  between  the  promontories.  A  surf,  that 
made  my  hands  tingle,  pounded  inshore  and  I  watched 
with  fascinated  gaze  the  wicked  curl  of  the  blue  cylinder 
as  it  stood  for  an  instant  and  then  tumbled  and  crashed 
up  the  beach.  I  was  wondering  how  Waddy  would 
get  me  through  this  when  the  measured  shots  from  a 
single-loading  carbine  made  themselves  heard  above 
the  noise  of  the  surf. 

I  turned  the  Yakaboo  around  that  I  might  view  the 
shore  more  easily  and  found  that  we  were  lying  off 
a  long  beach  terminating  in  Grande  Riviere  Point  a 
few  hundred  yards  beyond.  A  group  of  huts  flocked 
together  under  the  headland  as  if  seeking  shelter  from 
the  trades  that  were  wont  to  blow  over  the  high  bluff 
above  them.  Where  the  beach  rounded  the  point,  the 
usual  fringe  of  coco  palms  in  dispirited  angles  stood 
out  in  bold  relief.  A  line  of  dugouts  drawn  far  up 
the  beach  vouched  for  Waddy's  statement  that  here 
the  natives  caught  the  "thon." 

Off  the  point  a  series  of  reefs  broke  the  heavy  swell 
into  a  fringe  of  white  smother — inside  was  my  salva- 
tion of  deep  blue  quiet  water.  The  blue  of  the  sea 
and  sky,  the  white  of  the  clouds  and  broken  water,  the 
yellow  of  the  deeper  shoals  and  the  beaches,  the  dark 
yreen  background  of  vegetation  lightened  by  the 
;  touches  of  red  roofs  and  painted  canoes,  the  sketchy 


226  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

outline  of  the  point  and  the  palms  made  a  picture, 
ideally  typical,  of  this  north  coast  village. 

A  crowd  of  natives  were  dragging  down  a  huge  dug- 
out which  proved  to  be  fully  thirty  feet  long  and  made 
of  a  single  log  while  a  detached  unit,  which  I  recognised 
as  the  figure  of  Waddy,  stood  firing  his  carbine  into 
the  air.  s  It  was  a  signal,  he  explained  later,  to  attract 
my  attention  and  to  call  the  people  together  to  launch 
the  dugout.  When  Waddy  saw  that  I  had  turned  the 
canoe  he  waved  his  large  black  felt  hat  frantically  at 
the  dugout  and  I  waved  back  in  understanding  and 
waited. 

But  even  under  the  protection  of  the  barrier  reef, 
there  was  a  goodly  surf  running  on  the  beach — too 
much  for  the  Yakaboo — and  I  saw  them  wait,  like  all 
good  surf  men,  till  there  was  a  proper  lull,  and  then 
rush  the  dugout  into  the  sea.  For  a  moment  she  hung, 
then,  as  the  centipede  paddles  caught  the  water,  she! 
shot  ahead,  her  bow  cutting  into  the  menacing  top  of, 
a  comber  mounting  up  to  break.  Up  she  went,  half 
her  length  out  of  the  water,  her  bow  pointing  skyward, 
and  then  down  again  as  the  sea  broke  under  her,  her 
bow  men  swung  through  a  dizzy  arc.  If  that  were 
close  work  in  a  lull  what  were  the  large  seas  like? 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  alongside.  Clearing 
away  the  thwarts  half  the  natives — she  was  full  oB 
them — jumped  overboard  and  swam  ashore.  I  then 
unstepped  my  rig  and  passed  over  my  outfit  bags  with 
which  we  made  a  soft  bed  in  the  dugout  for  the  Yaka» 
boo.  I  followed  the  outfit  and  we  slid  the  empty  canoe  j 
hull  athwartships  over  the  gunwale  and  then  with  a 
man  under  her  belly  like  an  Atlas,  we  swung  her  fore- 


)    <      J    )   J 


>  I  .»  J     ,  . 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  JOT 

md  aft,  lifted  her  up  while  the  man  crawled  out  and 
hen  set  her  down  gently  in  her  nest.  She  looked  like 
jome  strange  sea-fowl  making  a  ludicrous  effort  to 
latch  out  an  assortment  of  yellow  eggs  of  various 
sizes  and  shapes. 

In  this  way  Waddy  had  solved  the  surf  problem  for 
me.  If  the  Carib  Indians  were  good  boatmen,  the 
Martinique  tuna  fishermen  were  better.  First  we  pad- 
dled up  shore  to  regain  our  driftage,  and  then  in 
around  the  edge  of  the  reef  to  a  deep  channel  that  ran 
close  to  the  beach.  We  followed  the  channel  for  a 
hundred  yards  where  we  turned,  hung  for  an  instant — 
the  seas  were  breaking  just  ahead  and  astern  of  us — 
and  at  a  signal  from  the  people  on  shore,  paddled  like 
mad.  With  the  roar  of  the  surf  under  us  we  passed 
from  the  salt  sea  into  the  sea  of  village  people  who 
dragged  the  dugout  and  all  high  and  dry  on  the  beach. 
It  had  been  another  strange  ride  for  the  Yakaboo  and 
she  looked  self-satisfied,  as  if  she  enjoyed  it. 

As  I  jumped  to  the  sands,  Waddy  received  me, 
glowing  and  triumphant.  It  seemed  that  I  was  a  hero ! 
and  great  was  his  honour  to  be  my  host. 

The  Yakaboo  and  her  yellow  bags  were  carried  to  a 
sort  of  public  shed  where  the  crowd  assembled  with 
an  air  of  expectancy  which  explained  itself  when  I 
was  ceremoniously  presented  to  His  Honour  the 
Mayor.  This  dignitary  then  made  a  speech  in  which 
the  liberty  of  the  town  was  given  me,  to  which  I  re- 
plied as  best  I  could.  Thus  was  I  received  into  the 
bosom  of  the  little  village  of  Grande  Riviere.  Then 
up  the  hot  dusty  road  to  Waddy' s  large  rambling  house 


ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

on  the  headland  where  a  second  reception  was  held — 
only  the  elect  being  present. 

It  was  at  this  point,  however,  that  the  liberty  of  the 
town  which  had  been  presented  me  "paragorically 
speaking,"  as  "Judge"  Warner  used  to  say,  was  about 
to  be  taken  away  from  me.  The  street  door  was  sud- 
denly burst  open  and  a  band  of  hot  dusty  duanes  came 
in  to  arrest  the  man  who  had  defied  their  compatriots 
near  Pearl  Rock.  But  the  Mayor,  the  priest,  the  pre- 
fect of  police,  and  my  fiery  little  host — an  Achilles  as 
to  body  if  we  may  believe  that  the  ancient  Greeks  were 
not  large  men — stayed  the  anger  of  the  duanes  while 
Waddy's  servant — oh,  the  guile  of  these  Frenchmen! 
— poured  out  a  fresh  bottle  of  wine  which  effectually 
extinguished  the  flame  of  their  ire.  My  papers  were 
duly  examined  and  all  was  well  again.  When  the 
duanes  were  at  last  on  their  way  I  told  my  protectors 
how  I  had  dodged  them  at  St.  Pierre  and  Pearl  Rock. 
This  called  for  another  bottle. 

But  I  cannot  keep  you  standing  here  in  Waddy's 
house,  for  the  little  man  was  as  eager  to  show  me  the 
sights  of  Grande  Riviere  as  any  schoolboy  who  races 
ahead  of  his  chum,  of  a  Saturday  morning,  two  steps 
at  a  time,  to  the  attic  where  some  new  "invention"  is 
about  to  be  born.  He  waved  the  select  committee  of 
the  bottle  very  politely  out  of  the  front  door  and  then 
grabbing  his  big  hat  he  raced  me  up  the  steep  road 
to  the  top  of  the  cliff  above  the  town.  Time  was  pre- 
cious.    One  could  walk  fast  and  talk  at  the  same  time. 

In  the  first  hundred  yards  I  learned  that  he  was 
born  in  Martinique,  educated  in  Paris,  and  had  special- 
ised in  botany  and  medicine.     Cut  off  from  the  world 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  229 

as  he  had  been  for  the  better  part  of  his  life  (I  had 
all  this  as  we  cleared  the  houses  of  the  village)  he  had 
developed  the  resourcefulness  of  a  Robinson  Crusoe. 
He  would  have  made  an  excellent  Yankee.  He  could 
make  shoes,  was  a  carpenter,  something  of  a  chemist, 
a  philosopher,  an  expert  on  tuna  fishing,  and  a  student 
of  literature.  It  seemed  that  his  divertissement  was 
the  growing  of  vanilla  and  the  raising  of  a  large 
family. 

He  did  not  give  out  all  this  in  a  boastful  way  but 
merely  tore  through  the  facts  as  if  he  were  working 
against  time,  so  that  we  might  understand  each  other 
the  sooner  and  interchange  as  much  of  our  personal- 
ity as  possible  in  the  few  hours  I  was  to  stay  at  Grande 
Riviere.  By  the  time  we  reached  the  top  of  the  cliff 
I  had  the  man  pat  while  he  had  me  out  of  breath. 
He  was  the  third  I  had  met  who  would  make  life  worth 
while  in  these  parts. 

And  here,  looking  up  the  valley  of  the  Grande 
Riviere,  I  saw  one  of  the  most  beautiful  bits  of  scenery 
in  all  the  islands.  The  river  came  down  from  Pelee 
through  a  canon  of  green  vegetation.  On  the  opposite 
wall  from  where  we  stood,  a  road  zigzagged  upwards 
from  the  valley  to  disappear  through  a  hole  near  the 
top  of  the  cliff.  Some  day  I  shall  travel  that  road  and 
go  through  the  hole  in  the  wall  to  visit  Macouba  be- 
yond where  Pere  Labat  spent  his  first  years  in  the  par- 
ish and  where  he  practised  those  sly  little  economies  of 
which  he  was  so  proud.  He  tells  of  how  he  brought 
home  some  little  chicks,  poules  d'Inde  he  calls  them, 
and  gave  them  out  among  his  parishioners  to  be 
brought  up,  in  material  payment  for  the  spiritual  com- 


230  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

fort  and  the  blessings  which  he,  Pere  Labat,  afforded 
them.  And  how  his  children  came  back  to  him,  grown 
up  and  ready  for  his  table.  His  sexton  lived  close 
to  the  sea  by  the  river  (probably  just  such  a  stream 
as  this  with  a  ford  and  the  houses  of  the  town  close 
to  its  banks)  and  this  gave  him  the  idea  of  buying  ducks 
and  drakes  and  going  in  with  the  sexton  on  a  half  and 
half  basis.  When  the  ducks  matured,  Pere  Labat, 
who  was  steadily  increasing  his  worldly  assets,  bought 
out  the  sexton  at  a  low  price.  The  sexton  probably 
shared  in  the  eating  of  the  ducks  for  he  was  a  singer 
and  a  good  fellow,  a  Parisian,  the  son  of  an  attorney 
named  Rollet,  made  famous  by  Boileau  in  a  shady 
passage  of  his  "Satires."  The  son  had  changed  his 
name  to  Rallet,  fled  the  scenes  of  his  father's  disgrace 
and  came  to  Martinique  where  he  found  peace  and 
happiness  in  the  parish  of  Pere  Labat.  Although  the 
priest  and  poor  Rallet  have  been  a-mouldering  these 
two  hundred  years  I  could  not  help  hoping  that  it 
was  a  good  cook  who  prepared  their  ducks  and  chick- 
ens. 

The  shadow  of  evening  had  already  crossed  the 
valley  bottom  and  it  followed  a  lone  figure  that  was 
slowly  toiling  up  the  road  toward  the  hole  in  the  wall. 
We  scrambled  down  again  through  the  village,  where 
the  odour  of  French  cooking  was  on  the  evening  air, 
past  a  little  wayside  shrine  to  the  beach  where  I  had 
landed.  We  had  left  the  evening  behind  us  for  a 
time  and  were  back  in  the  last  hour  of  afternoon.  It 
was  hot  even  now,  although  the  dangerous  heat  of  the 
day  was  over.  I  had  caught  my  breath  on  our  com- 
ing down  and  my  long  legs  made  good  progress  over 


ST.  PIERRE— PELEE  231 

the  soft  sands — there  is  a  knack  in  beach  walking,  the 
leg  swings  forward  with  a  slight  spring-halt  motion, 
the  knee  is  never  straightened  and  the  foot  is  used  flat 
so  that  it  will  sink  as  little  as  possible  in  the  sand.  I 
had  my  little  Achilles  in  the  toils  and  I  talked  while  he 
fought  for  breath. 

For  a  quarter  of  a  mile  we  trudged  the  sands  till 
the  green  wall  closed  in  on  us  and  met  the  sea.  A 
little  spring  trickled  down  through  an  opening  in  the 
rocks  and  we  drank  its  cool  water  from  cups  which 
Waddy  made  of  leaves.  It  was  here  that  my  friend 
was  wont  to  come  when  he  wished  to  be  alone  and  he 
led  me  up  through  a  crevasse  to  the  top  of  a  gigantic 
rock  that  overhung  the  surf  some  thirty  feet.  He 
could  have  paid  me  no  greater  compliment  than  to  take 
me  to  this  place,  sacred  to  his  own  moody  thoughts, 
where,  like  a  sick  animal  or  an  Indian  with  a  ubad 
heart"  he  could  fight  his  troubles  alone.  Below  us  the 
surf  curled  over  in  a  mighty  roll  that  burst  on  the  beach 
with  a  deafening  roar,  sending  up  a  fine  mist  of  salty 
vapour  like  the  smoke  of  an  explosion.  This  was  Pere 
Labat's  country  and  as  I  watched  the  regular  on- 
slaught of  several  large  seas  I  thought  of  a  paragraph 
he  wrote  some  two  hundred  years  ago.  "The  sea 
always  forms  seven  large  billows,  waves  or  surges, 
whichever  you  would  call  them,  that  break  on  the  shore 
with  an  astonishing  violence  and  which  can  be  heard 
along  the  windward  side  where  the  coast  is  usually  very 
high  and  where  the  wind  blows  continually  on  the  sea. 
The  three  last  of  these  seven  waves  are  the  largest. 
When  they  have  subsided  after  breaking  on  shore  there 
is  a  little  calm  which  is  called  Emblie  and  which  lasts 


232  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

about  the  time  it  takes  to  say  an  Ave  Maria,  after 
which  the  waves  begin  again,  their  size  and  force  aug- 
menting always  till  the  seventh  has  broken  on  the 
shore." 

We  watched  the  sun  go  down  and  then  silently 
crawled  down  to  the  beach.  It  was  Waddy's  wish  that 
we  should  walk  back  in  the  darkness.  The  advance 
of  night  seemed  to  drive  the  last  fitful  twilight  before  it 
— one  can  see  the  light  fade  away  from  a  printed  page 
— and  the  stars  came  out.  The  moon  would  not  rise 
yet  awhile.  "Look!"  said  Waddy,  and  he  turned  me 
toward  the  dark  cliffs  above  us.  Hanging  over  us 
was  a  deep  velvet  darkness  that  I  could  almost  reach 
out  and  feel,  and  against  this  like  the  jewels  of  a 
scarf,  was  the  glimmer  of  thousands  of  fire-flies — mov- 
ing, blinking  spots  of  light  as  large  and  luminous  as 
Jupiter  on  the  clearest  night.  They  lived  in  the  foliage 
of  the  cliff  and  it  was  Waddy's  delight  to  come  here  of 
a  night  and  watch  them.  "Chaque  bete  a  feu  claire  pou 
name  yo!"  he  said.     (Each  firefly  lights  for  his  soul.) 

Dinner  was  waiting  for  us  and  with  it  the  proud 
maman  and  two  of  the  children.  Some  were  away  at 
school  and  some  were  too  young  to  come  to  the  table 
(at  least  when  there  were  visitors)  and  we  did  justice 
to  that  of  which  she  was  proud,  the  food.  That  night 
we  discussed  till  late  the  various  means  by  which  the 
"Touring  Club"  could  see  more  of  the  Antilles  as  I 
was  seeing  them,  but  Nature  finally  had  her  way  and  I 
fell  asleep  talking — so  Waddy  said. 


CHAPTER  X 

A   LAND   CRUISE — THE   CALM   OF  GUADELOUPE 

1  AWOKE  in  the  morning  to  find  that  I  had  care- 
lessly slipped  into  the  second  day  of  a  windy 
quarter.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it ;  the  trade  was 
blowing  strong  at  six  o'clock.  I  was  impatient  to  be 
off  shore  before  the  surf  would  be  running  too  high 
even  for  the  thirty-foot  dugout.  After  gulping  down 
a  hasty  breakfast  and  bidding  profuse  adieux  to  Ma- 
dame Waddy,  I  reached  the  beach  with  my  friend  just 
in  time  to  see  one  of  the  fishing  boats  capsize  and  to 
watch  the  natives  chase  down  the  shore  to  pick  up  her 
floating  gear. 

It  took  nearly  the  whole  male  population  of  the 
village  to  turn  the  dugout  and  get  her  bow  down  to  the 
surf.  With  a  shout  and  a  laugh  the  people  carried 
the  Yakaboo  and  placed  her  lightly  in  her  nest.  Ten 
of  the  strongest  paddlers  were  selected  and  they  took 
their  places  in  the  dugout  forward  and  aft  of  the  canoe 
while  I,  like  the  Queen  of  the  Carnival,  sat  perched 
high  above  the  rest,  in  the  cockpit.  For  nearly  half  an 
hour — by  my  watch — we  sat  and  waited.  There  were 
thirty  men,  on  the  sands,  along  each  gunwale,  ready  for 
the  word  from  Waddy.  There  was  little  talking;  we 
all  watched  the  seas  that  seemed  to  come  in,  one  after 
another,  with  vindictive  force. 

233 


234  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

I  was  beginning  to  swear  that  I  was  too  late  when  a 
"soft  one"  rolled  in  and  we  shot  from  the  heave  of  a 
hundred  and  twenty  arms  plunging  our  bow  into  the 
first  sea.  Her  heel  was  still  on  the  sand  and  I  feared 
she  wouldn't  come  up  for  we  shipped  two  barrels  of 
brine  as  easily  as  the  Yakaboo  takes  a  teacupful.  But 
with  the  first  stroke  she  was  free  and  with  the  second 
she  cleared  the  next  sea  which  broke  under  her  stern. 
We  were  in  the  roar  of  the  reef  and  if  Waddy  yelled 
good-bye  it  had  been  carried  down  the  beach  like  the 
gear  of  the  fishing  boat.  But  he  waved  his  hat  like  a 
madman  and  followed  us  along  shore  as  we  ran  down 
the  channel  and  turned  out  to  sea. 

Once  clear  of  all  dangers,  eight  of  the  men  fell  to 
bailing  while  the  two  bow  men  and  the  steersman  kept 
her  head  to  it.  Then  we  swung  the  Yakaboo  athwart- 
ships  while  I  loaded  and  rigged  her.  We  slid  her  over- 
board and  I  jumped  in.  The  men  held  her  alongside 
where  she  tugged  like  an  impatient  puppy  while  I  low- 
ered the  centerboard.  "Let  'er  go!"  I  yelled — an  ex- 
pression that  seems  to  be  understood  in  all  languages — 
and  I  ran  up  the  mizzen,  sheeting  it  not  quite  home. 
Then  the  jib.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sensation  as 
hauled  in  on  that  jib — it  seems  out  of  proportion  to 
use  the  word  "haul"  for  a  line  scarcely  an  eighth  of  an 
inch  in  diameter  fastened  to  a  sail  hardly  a  yard  in 
area.     The  wind  was  strong  and  the  seas  were  lively. 

When  that  sheeted  jib  swung  the  canoe  around  she 
did  not  have  time  to  gather  speed,  she  simply  jumped 
to  it.  I  made  fast  the  jib  sheet  and  prepared  to  steer 
by  the  mizzen  when  I  discovered  that  the  canoe  was 
sailing  herself.    I  looked  back  toward  shore  and  waved 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  235 

both  arms.  Waddy  was  a  crazy  figure  on  the  beach. 
The  day  was  delirious.  A  tuna  dugout  that  had  been 
lying  into  the  wind  fell  away  as  I  started  and  raced 
ahead  of  me,  reefed  down,  her  lee  rail  in  the  boil  and 
her  wild  crew  to  windward.  My  mainsail  was  already 
reefed  and  I  let  the  canoe  have  it.  By  the  high-tuned 
hum  of  her  board  I  knew  that  the  Yakaboo  was  travel- 
ling and  the  crew  of  the  tuna  canoe  knew  it,  too,  for 
we  passed  them  and  were  off  on  our  wild  ride  to 
Dominica. 

My  channel  runs  were  improving.  The  sea,  the 
sky,  and  the  clouds  were  all  the  same  as  on  the  other 
runs,  but  the  wind  was  half  a  gale.  What  occupied 
my  mind  above  all,  however,  was  the  discovery  that  the 
canoe  would  sail  herself  under  jib  and  mizzen.  I  had 
thought  that  no  boat  with  so  much  curve  to  her  bottom 
could  possibly  do  such  a  thing — it  is  not  done  on  paper. 
The  fact  remained,  however,  that  the  two  small  sails 
low  down  and  far  apart  kept  the  canoe  on  her  course 
as  well  as  I  could  when  handling  the  mainsheet. 

I  checked  this  observation  by  watching  my  compass 
which  has  a  two-inch  card  floating  in  liquid  and  is  ex- 
tremely steady.  I  also  learned  that  I  did  not  have  to 
waste  time  heading  up  for  the  breaking  seas,  except 
the  very  large  ones,  of  course.  Sometimes  I  could 
roll  them  under — at  other  times  I  let  them  come  right 
aboard  and  then  I  was  up  to  my  shoulders  in  foam. 
The  canoe  was  tighter  than  she  had  ever  been  and  it 
was  only  the  cockpit  that  gave  trouble.  When  she 
began  to  stagger  from  weight  of  water,  I  would  let  go 
the  main  halyard  and  she  would  continue  on  her  course 
while  I  bailed.     In  all  the  two  thousand  miles  of  cruis- 


236  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

ing  I  had  hitherto  done,  I  learned  more  in  this  twenty- 
five  mile  channel  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  Some 
day — I  promised  myself — I  would  build  a  hull  abso- 
lutely tight  and  so  strong  and  of  such  a  form  that  I 
could  force  her  through  what  seas  she  could  not  easily 
ride  under.  Also,  what  a  foolish  notion  I  had  clung 
to  in  setting  my  sails  only  a  few  inches  above  deck; 
they  should  be  high  up  so  that  a  foot  of  water  could 
pass  over  the  deck  and  not  get  into  the  cloth.  In  this 
run,  if  the  Yakaboo  had  been  absolutely  tight  and  her 
sails  raised  and  if  I  had  carried  a  small  deck  seat  to 
windward,  I  could  have  carried  full  sail  and  she  would 
have  ridden  to  Dominica  on  a  cloud  of  brine-smelling 
steam.  As  it  was,  she  was  travelling  much  faster  than 
at  any  time  before  and  I  did  not  know  that  the  most 
glorious  channel  run  was  yet  to  come. 

I  laid  my  course  for  Cape  Cachacrou  (Scott's 
Head) ,  a  peculiar  hook  that  runs  out  to  westward  of 
the  south  end  of  Dominica.  For  the  first  two  hours 
I  could  not  see  the  Head,  then  it  popped  up  like  an 
island  and  began  slowly  to  connect  itself  with  the  larger 
land.  The  going  was  excellent  and  in  short  time  the 
head  was  right  over  our  bow,  with  Dominica  rising  up 
four  thousand  feet  to  weather.  We  were  not  more 
than  half  a  mile  off  shore  when  I  took  out  my  watch. 
I  figured  out  later  that  our  rate  had  been  six  miles  an 
hour  including  slowing  up  to  bail  and  occasionally  com- 
ing to  a  dead  stop  when  riding  out  a  big  sea  bow  on. 
I  could  ask  no  better  of  a  small  light  craft  sailing  six 
points  off  the  wind,  logy  a  part  of  the  time  and  work- 
ing in  seas  that  were  almost  continually  breaking. 

Fate  was  indulgent,  for  she  waited  till  I  had  stowed 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  237 

my  watch  in  its  berth  to  starboard.  Then  she  sent  a 
sea  of  extra  size — it  seemed  to  come  right  up  from 
below  and  mouth  the  Yakaboo  like  a  terrier — and  be- 
fore we  got  over  our  surprise  she  gave  us  the  tail  end 
of  a  squall,  like  a  whip-lash,  that  broke  the  mizzen 
goose-neck  and  sent  the  sail  a-skying  like  a  crazy  kite. 
I  let  go  all  my  halyards  and  pounced  after  my  sails 
like  a  frantic  washerwoman  whose  clothes  have  gone 
adrift  in  a  backyard  gale.  The  mainsail  came  first  and 
then  the  jib.  The  truant  mizzen  which  had  dropped 
into  the  sea  when  I  slipped  its  halyard  came  out  torn 
and  wet  and  I  rolled  it  up  and  spanked  it  and  stowed  it 
in  the  cockpit. 

The  sea  had  come  up  from  the  sudden  shoaling 
where  in  a  third  of  a  mile  the  bottom  jumps  from  a 
hundred  and  twenty  fathoms  to  twelve,  and  as  for  the 
squall,  that  was  just  a  frisky  bit  of  trade  that  was  not 
content  with  gathering  speed  around  the  end  of  the 
island  but  must  slide  down  the  side  of  a  mountain  to 
see  how  much  of  a  rumpus  it  could  raise  on  the  water. 
I  had  run  unawares — it  was  my  own  stupid  carelessness 
that  did  it — on  the  shoals  that  extend  to  the  southeast 
of  Cachacrou  Head  where  the  seas  jumped  with  nasty 
breaking  heads  that  threatened  to  turn  the  Yakaboo 
end  for  end  any  minute. 

With  the  mizzen  out  of  commission  I  might  as  well 
have  stood  in  pink  tights  on  the  back  of  a  balky  farm 
horse  and  told  him  to  cross  his  fingers  as  sail  that 
canoe.  I  might  have  hoisted  my  jib  and  slowly  run 
off  the  shoals  to  the  westward,  but  that  would  have 
meant  a  hard  tedious  beat  back  to  shore  again  for  a 
good  part  of  the  night.     I  chose  to  work  directly  across 


238  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

the  shoals  with  the  oars.  But  it  was  no  joking  matter. 
My  course  lay  in  the  trough  of  the  sea  and  it  was  a 
question  of  keeping  her  stern  to  the  seas  so  that  I  could 
watch  them  and  making  as  much  as  I  could  between 
crests. 

Most  of  my  difficulty  lay  in  checking  her  speed  when 
a  comber  would  try  to  force  her  along  in  a  mad  tobog- 
gan ride  and  from  this  the  palms  of  my  hands  became 
sore  and  developed  a  huge  blister  in  each  that  finally 
broke  and  let  in  the  salt  water  which  was  about  in 
plenty.  For  an  hour  I  worked  at  it,  edging  in  crab- 
wise  across  the  shoals  till  the  seas  began  to  ease  up 
and  I  pulled  around  the  Head  to  the  quiet  waters 
under  its  hook.  Have  you  walked  about  all  day  in  a 
stiff  pair  of  new  shoes  and  then  come  home  to  the  ex- 
quisite ease  of  an  old  pair  of  bed-room  slippers?  Then 
you  know  how  I  felt  when  I  could  take  a  straight  pull 
with  my  fingers  crooked  on  the  oars  and  my  raw  palms 
eased  from  their  contact  with  the  handles. 

Cachacrou  Head  is  a  rock  which  stands  some  two 
hundred  and  thirty-four  feet  up  from  the  sea  and  is 
connected  with  the  coast  of  Dominica  by  a  narrow 
curved  peninsula  fifty  yards  across  and  half  a  mile  in 
length.  There  is  a  small  fort  on  the  top  of  the  Head 
and  here  on  the  night  of  September  the  seventh,  in 
1778,  the  French  from  Martinique,  with  a  forty-nine 
gun  ship,  three  frigates  and  about  thirty  small  sloops 
filled  with  all  kinds  of  piratical  rabble,  captured  the 
fort  which  was  in  those  days  supposed  to  be  impreg- 
nable. It  was  the  same  old  story;  there  is  always  a 
weak  point  in  the  armour  of  one's  enemy — thirst  being 
the  vulnerable  point  in  this  case.    The  night  before  the 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  239 

capture  some  French  soldiers  who  had  insinuated  them- 
selves into  the  fort,  muddled  the  heads  of  the  English 
garrison  with  wine  from  Martinique,  and  spiked  the 
guns.  The  capture  then  was  easy.  By  this  thin  wedge, 
the  French  gained  control  of  Dominica  and  held  the 
island  for  five  years. 

Rowing  close  around  the  Head,  I  found  a  sandy  bit 
of  beach  just  where  the  peninsula  starts  for  the  main- 
land and  with  a  feeling  that  here  ended  a  good  day's 
work,  hauled  the  Yakaboo  up  on  the  smooth  hard 
beach.  The  sun — it  seems  that  I  am  continually  talk- 
ing about  the  sun  which  is  either  rising  or  setting  or 
passing  through  that  ninety  degree  arc  of  deadly  heat 
the  middle  of  which  is  noon  (it  was  now  four  o'clock) 
— was  far  enough  on  its  down  path  so  that  the  Head 
above  me  cast  a  grateful  shade  over  the  beach  while 
the  cool  wind  from  the  mountains  insured  the  absence 
of  mosquitoes. 

The  lee  coast  of  Dominica  stretching  away  to  the 
north  was  in  brilliant  light.  You  have  probably  gath- 
ered by  this  time  that  the  Lesser  Antilles  are  decidedly 
unsuited  for  camping  and  cruising  as  we  like  to  do  it 
in  the  North  Woods.  In  a  few  isolated  places  on  the 
windward  coasts  one  might  live  in  a  tent  and  be  healthy 
and  happy,  such  as  my  camp  with  the  Caribs;  but  to 
cruise  and  camp,  that  is  travel  and  then  rest  for  a 
day  on  the  beach — this  is  impossible.  In  this  respect 
my  cruise  was  a  distinct  failure. 

When  I  did  find  a  spot  such  as  this,  where  I  could 
still  enjoy  a  part  of  the  afternoon  in  comparative  com- 
fort, I  enjoyed  it  to  the  utmost.  I  did  not  unload  the 
Yakaboo  immediately- — I  merely  took  those  things  out 


240  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

of  her  that  I  wanted  for  my  present  use.  Tabac  de 
Diable,  for  instance,  and  my  pipe,  and  then  a  change  of 
clothes;  but  before  I  put  on  that  change  I  shed  my 
stiff  briny  sea  outfit  and  sat  down  in  a  little  sandy- 
floored  pool  in  the  rocks.  There  I  smoked  with  my 
back  against  a  rock  while  the  reflex  from  the  Carib- 
bean rose  and  fell  with  delightful  intimacy  from  my 
haunches  to  my  shoulders. 

For  some  time  I  rested  there,  with  my  hands  be- 
hind my  head  to  keep  the  blood  out  of  my  throbbing 
hands  and  the  salt  out  of  my  burning  palms.  Across 
the  bay  was  the  town  of  Soufriere,  not  unlike  the  Souf- 
riere of  Saint  Lucia,  from  a  distance,  while  a  few  miles 
beyond  was  Point  Michelle  and  another  few  miles  : 
along  was  Roseau,  the  capital  town  of  the  island. 
Away  to  the  north  Diablotin  rose  nearly  five  thousand 
feet,  within  a  hundred  feet  of  the  Soufriere  of  Guade- 
loupe, the  highest  mountain  of  the  Lesser  Antilles. 

After  a  while  I  got  up,  like  a  lazy  faun  (let  us  not 
examine  the  simile  too  closely  for  who  would  picture 
a  sea  faun  smoking  a  Three-B  and  with  a  four  days' 
stubble  on  his  chin?).  On  a  flat-topped  rock  near  the 
canoe  I  spread  out  my  food  bags.  Near  this  I  started 
a  fire  of  hardwood  twigs  that  soon  burned  down  to  a 
hot  little  bed  of  coals  over  which  my  pot  of  erbswurst 
was  soon  boiling.  This  peameal  soup,  besides  bacon 
and  potatoes,  is  one  of  the  few  foods  of  which  one  may 
eat  without  tiring,  three  times  a  day,  day  in  and  day 
out,  when  living  in  the  open.  It  is  an  excellent  cam- 
paign food  and  can  be  made  into  a  thin  or  thick  soup 
according  to  one's  fancy.  I  have  eaten  it  raw  and 
found  it  to  be  very  sustaining.     At  home  one  would  , 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  Ul 

quickly  tire  of  the  eternal  peameal  and  the  salty  bacon 
taste — but  I  never  eat  it  when  I  am  at  home  nor  do  I 
use  in  general  the  foods  I  take  with  me  when  cruising. 
The  two  diets  are  quite  distinct. 

While  the  pot  was  boiling,  I  betook  myself  to  a  cosy 
angle  in  the  rocks  which  I  softened  with  my  blanket 
bag,  and  fell  to  repairing  my  mizzen.  My  eye  chanced 
to  wander  down  the  beach — is  it  chance  or  instinct? — 
and  finally  came  to  rest  on  a  group  of  natives  who 
stood  watching  me.  Modesty  demanded  something 
in  the  way  of  clothes  so  I  put  on  a  clean  shirt  and 
trousers  and  beckoned  to  them.  They  were  a  timid 
lot  and  only  two  of  them  advanced  to  within  fifty  feet 
of  the  canoe  and  then  stopped.  I  talked  to  them,  but 
it  was  soon  evident  that  they  did  not  understand  a 
word  I  said,  even  the  little  patois  I  knew  got  no  word 
from  them.  Finally  they  summoned  enough  courage 
to  depart  and  I  was  left  to  my  mending. 

I  had  finished  my  sail  and  was  enjoying  my  pea-soup 
and  biscuits  when  my  eye  detected  a  movement  down 
the  beach  and  I  saw  a  lone  figure  which  advanced 
without  hesitation  and  walked  right  into  my  camp 
where  it  smiled  down  at  me  from  an  altitude  of  three 
inches  over  six  feet. 

"My  name  ess  Pistole  Titre,  wat  you  name  and 
frum  war  you  cum?" 

I  told  him  that  my  name  was  of  little  importance 
and  that  I  had  just  come  from  Martinique. 

"Frum  war  before  dat?" 

"Saint  Lucia." 

"Frum  war  before  dat?" 

"Saint  Vincent." 


242  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

"Frum  war  before  dat?" 

"Grenada." 

"An'  you  not  afraid ?" 

"Why  should  I  be  afraid?    The  canoe  sails  well.' 

"I  no  mean  de  sea,  I  mean  jumbie.  How  you  don' 
know  w'en  you  come  to  strange  ilan  de  jumbie  no  tak< 
you?" 

There  might  be  some  truth  in  this  but  I  answered 
"I  don't  believe  in  jumbies."  This  he  interpreted  into 
"I  don't  believe  there  are  jumbies  here."  The  fac 
that  I  did  not  believe  in  jumbies,  the  evil  spirits  of  th( 
Africans,  was  utterly  beyond  his  conception — of  course 
I  believed  in  them,  everybody  did,  but  by  some  occuli 
power  I  must  know  their  haunts  and  could  avoid  then 
though  I  had  never  visited  the  place  before. 

"I  know  jumbies  no  come  here,  but  how  you  know! 
You  wonderful  man,"  he  concluded. 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  I  was  secretl) 
admiring  his  huge  lithe  body — such  of  it  as  could  be 
seen  through  an  open  shirt  and  by  suggestive  line  ol 
limb ;  he  might  have  been  some  bronze  Apollo  come  tc 
animation,  except  for  his  face.  His  face  was  an  ex- 
pression of  good-will,  intelligence,  and  energy  thai 
came  to  me  as  a  refreshing  relief  from  the  shiny  ful- 
some visage  of  the  common  native. 

The  jumbies  disposed  of  for  the  time  being,  Pistole 
sat  down  on  a  rock  and  made  rapid  inroads  on  a  few 
soda  biscuits  and  some  pea-soup  which  I  poured  into  a 
calabash.  The  native  can  always  eat,  and  the  eating 
of  this  salty  soup  with  its  bacon  flavour  seemed  the  very 
quintessence  of  gastronomic  delight.  When  he  had 
finished  he  pointed  to  a  steep  upland  valley  and  told 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  243 

me  he  must  go  there  to  milk  his  cows.  He  would  bring 
me  a  bottle  of  fresh  milk,  he  said,  when  he  came  back 
again,  for  he  was  going  to  fish  that  night  from  the 
rocks  under  the  Head.  As  he  walked  away  along  the 
beach,  the  breeze  brought  back,  "An'  he  no  'fraid 
jumbies.     O  Lard!" 

My  supper  over,  I  turned  the  canoe  bow  toward 
the  water  and  made  up  my  bed  in  the  cockpit.  It 
would  be  too  fine  a  night  for  a  tent  and  I  tied  my  candle 
light  part  way  up  the  mizzen  mast  so  that  I  could  lie 
in  my  bed  and  read.  At  sunset  I  lit  my  lamp  for  the 
beach  under  the  Head  was  in  darkness.  While  the 
short  twilight  moved  up  from  the  sea  and  hovered  for 
a  moment  on  the  highest  mountain  tops  my  candle  grew 
from  a  pale  flame  to  a  veritable  beacon  that  cast  a 
sphere  of  light  about  the  canoe,  shutting  out  night  from 
the  tiny  rock-hedged  beach  on  which  we  lay.  But 
Ulysses  did  not  make  me  drowsy  and  I  blew  out  my 
light  and  lay  under  that  wonderful  blue  ceiling  in  which 
the  stars  blinked  like  live  diamonds.  The  Dipper  was 
submerged  with  its  handle  sticking  out  of  the  sea  before 
me  and  Polaris  hung  low,  a  much  easier  guide  than  in 
the  North.  Just  overhead  Orion's  belt  floated  like 
three  lights  dropped  from  a  sky  rocket.  Through  the 
low  brush  over  the  peninsula  the  Southern  Cross  tilted 
to  westward. 

As  I  lay  there  stargazing,  the  rattle  of  a  displaced 
stone  told  me  of  the  coming  of  Pistole  who  laid  down 
a  long  bamboo  pole  and  seated  himself  on  his  haunches 
iby  the  canoe.  I  relit  my  lamp  that  I  might  observe 
him  better.  Suspended  from  a  tump  line  passing  over 
the  top  of  his  head  was  a  curious  basket-like  woven 


244  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

matting.  From  its  depths  he  drew  forth  a  bottle, 
known  the  world  over,  a  four  shouldered,  high-sided 
termini  that  proclaimed  gin  as  its  original  contents,  but 
which  was  now  filled  with  milk  and  corked  with  a  wisp 
of  upland  grass. 

I  stuck  the  bottle  in  the  sand  beside  the  canoe  where 
the  morning  sun  would  not  strike  it  and  then  dug 
around  in  my  cosy  little  burrow  and  brought  forth 
a  bag  of  tobacco.  Pistole  did  not  smoke.  He  was 
supporting  his  mother  and  an  aunt;  it  was  hard  work 
and  he  could  not  afford  luxuries.  Here  certainly  was 
a  paradox,  a  native  who  forbore  the  use  of  tobacco ! 

Pistole  came  here  often,  he  said,  when  there  was  not 
much  moon,  to  fish  at  night  from  the  rocks,  using  the 
white  squid  that  shines  in  the  water  for  bait.  Some- 
times he  filled  his  basket  to  the  top  with  little  rock 
fish  and  at  other  times  he  got  nothing  at  all.  He 
lighted  his  flambeau  from  my  candle  lamp  and  de- 
parted, leaving  the  pleasant  odour  of  the  burning  gom- 
mier  like  an  incense.  I  watched  his  progress  as  the 
light  bobbed  up  and  down  and  was  finally  extinguished 
far  out  on  the  rocks. 

Tired  as  I  was,  my  throbbing  hands  kept  me  awake 
till  Pistole  returned  some  time  later — the  fish  did  not 
seem  to  be  biting — and  he  lay  down  in  the  sand  by  the 
canoe.  Had  he  seen  a  jumbie  or  was  there  a  sign  of 
lajoblesse?  The  huge  creature  edged  in  as  close  to 
the  planking  of  the  Yakaboo  as  he  could  get,  like  a 
remora  fastened  to  the  belly  of  a  shark.  The  mono- 
tone of  his  snores  brought  on  sleep  and  when  I  awoke 
the  sun  was  well  up  above  the  mountains  of  Dominica. 
A  lengthy  impression  in  the  sand  was  all  that  remained 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  245 

of  the  native  who  had  long  since  gone  to  tend  his  cat- 
tle. 

There  is  one  morning  when  I  feel  that  I  have  a  right 
to  spread  myself  and  that  is  on  Sunday.  It  is  from 
long  force  of  habit  that  began  with  my  earliest  school 
days.  There  was  no  need  for  an  early  start  and  as 
for  my  breakfast,  I  spared  neither  time  nor  trouble. 

First  I  very  slowly  and  very  carefully  reversed  Pis- 
tole's bottle  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  cream  and  then 
I  let  out  the  milk  from  under  it.  This  was  for  the 
chocolate.  The  cream  which  would  hardly  pour  and 
which  I  had  to  shake  out  of  the  bottle  I  set  aside  for 
my  oatmeal.  This  I  had  started  the  night  before  and 
it  only  needed  heating  and  stirring.  I  made  the 
chocolate  with  the  native  "stick"  and  sweetened  it  with 
the  Muscovado  sugar  and  I  even  swizzled  it  and 
sprinkled  nutmeg  on  the  heavy  foam  on  top  after  the 
old  Spanish  manner.  That  "head"  would  have  put  to 
shame  the  "Largest  Schooner  in  Town."  I  also  made 
a  dish  of  scrambled  eggs  and  smoked  flying  fish  that 
Waddy  had  given  me.  It  was  a  breakfast  fit  for  a 
king  and  I  felt  proud  of  myself  and  congratulated  my 
stomach  on  its  neat  capacity  as  I  stretched  out  by  a 
rock  like  a  gorged  reptile  and  lit  my  pipe.  There  was 
nothing,  just  then,  that  could  increase  the  sum  of  my 
happiness.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  have  spent  the 
day  there  but  I  knew  that  the  sun  would  soon  make  a 
hell's  furnace  of  this  delightful  spot  so  when  my  pipe 
was  finished  I  washed  my  dishes  and  loaded  the  canoe. 
I  was  having  my  "last  look  around"  when  I  saw  a 
crowd  of  natives  coming  up  the  beach  with  Pistole  at 
their  head.     They  were  probably  coming  to  see  the 


246  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

canoe  and  to  say  good-bye  so  I  sat  down  on  a  rock  and 
waited  for  them.  Pistole,  who  had  apparently  been 
appointed  spokesman,  said  that  they  all  lived  in  a  vil- 
lage, not  far  off,  but  hidden  from  view  by  the  bush. 
They  were  very  anxious  to  show  me  their  village — 
would  I  come  with- them? 

Pistole  led  the  way  along  the  peninsula  to  a  cres- 
cent of  beach  that  might  have  been  on  the  lagoon  of 
an  atoll  in  the  South  Sea  islands.  Under  the  coco- 
palms  that  hung  out  over  the  beach  almost  to  the 
water's  edge  were  the  canoes  of  the  village.  Behind 
the  scrubby  growth  that  fringed  the  beach  was  a  double 
row  of  huts  with  a  wide  path  between  them  parallel 
to  the  shore.  Down  this  path  or  avenue  I  was  led  in 
review  while  the  homes  of  the  persons  of  distinction 
were  pointed  out  to  me.  These  differed  from  the  or- 
dinary huts  in  that  they  were  sided  with  unpainted 
boards.  One  or  two  were  built  of  American  lumber, 
painted  and  with  shingled  roofs.  Half  the  village  fol- 
lowed us  while  the  other  half  sat  in  its  respective 
doorways.  Oh!  the  luxury  of  those  door  steps;  to 
those  who  sat  there  it  was  like  beholding  a  Memorial 
Day  procession  from  the  carpeted  steps  of  a  city  house. 
This  world  is  merely  one  huge  farce  of  comparison. 
At  the  end  of  the  avenue — let  us  give  it  as  much  dis- 
tinction as  possible — we  retraced  our  steps  and  the 
march  came  to  an  end  at  the  house  of  Pistole's  mother. 
This,  I  might  say,  was  one  of  the  finest  and  contained 
two  rooms.  The  .big  native  was  very  proud  of  his 
mother  and  aunt  who  received  me  with  the  graciousness 
of  women  of  royalty  and  brought  out  little  cakes  and 
glasses  of  cocomilk  and  rum.     The  heat  was  growing 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  247 

outside  and  I  must  get  off  the  beach,  so  I  said  "Good- 
bye" and  went  back  to  the  canoe  followed  by  a  small 
caravan  bearing  offerings  of  the  village,  waternuts  and 
pineapples. 

The  wind  was  roaring  down  the  mountainsides,  for 
this  quarter  continued  fresh,  and  I  left  the  beach  with 
the  reefed  mainsail  only.  The  sea  was  like  a  floor  and 
with  a  small  gale  for  a  beam  wind  the  reefed  sail  lifted 
the  Yakaboo  along  like  a  toboggan.  I  held  in  for  the 
town  of  Soufriere  in  order  to  keep  the  smooth  water 
and  when  I  was  part  way  across  the  bay  the  lightish 
water  under  me  suddenly  turned  to  a  deep  blue — the 
colour  of  sea  water  off  shore.  There  was  a  sharp  well- 
defined  line  which  I  crossed  again  and  was  once  more 
in  lighter  water.  It  was  L'Abime,  Dominica's  subma- 
rine crater. 

In  less  than  an  hour  I  lowered  sail  off  the  main  jetty 
of  Roseau. 

It  was  not  quite  twelve.  The  whole  town  had  begun 
breakfast  at  eleven  and  was  still  eating.  I  may  not 
be  absolutely  correct  in  saying  that  the  whole  town  was 
eating  for  there  was  one  individual  who  was  on  duty 
and  enjoying  a  nap  in  the  shade  of  the  custom-house 
at  the  shore  end  of  the  jetty.  There  was  another  also 
— but  he  did  not  belong  to  the  town — the  captain  of 
the  coasting  steamer  Yare,  a  jolly  little  Irishman 
whom  I  came  to  know  better  in  St.  Thomas.  He  was 
not  at  breakfast  and  he  yelled  a  welcome  from  the 
bridge  of  his.  steamer  at  her  Sunday  rest  by  the  big 
mooring  buoy  in  the  roadstead.  I  ran  up  my  ensign 
on  the  mizzen  halyard  and  yelled  at  the  man  inshore. 


248  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  but  did  not  seem  to  know  why  he 
should  be  disturbed. 

"Where  is  the  harbour-master?" 
"At  him  breakfus' — w'at  you  want?" 
"I  want  to  land.  Don't  you  see  my  ensign?" 
"O  Lard!  I  t'at  it  wuz  de  Umium  Jack." 
At  this  Wilson,  of  the  Yare,  sent  out  a  great  roar 
across  the  water.  "You  don't  think  that  ebony  ass 
knows  the  difference  between  one  flag  and  another,  do 
you?"  he  inquired  much  to  the  offence  of  the  e.  a. 
With  some  sheepishness,  the  revenue  man  came  down 
to  the  landing  place  where  I  prepared  to  tie  up  the 
Yakaboo  while  awaiting  the  answer  from  the  harbour- 
master. But  no,  I  could  not  even  fasten  my  painter 
to  one  of  the  iron  piles, — I  must  lie  off  in  the  roads 
till  word  came  that  my  papers  had  been  passed  upon. 
There  might  be  the  chance  that  I  had  yellow  fever 
aboard.  In  an  hour  the  boatman  returned  with  word 
that  I  might  come  ashore.  In  view  of  what  followed 
I  should  add  that  when  I  handed  my  papers  to  the 
boatman  I  told  him  that  I  had  already  landed  at 
Scott's  Head  under  stress  of  weather  and  that  he 
should  report  this  to  the  harbour-master.  Some  days 
later  while  I  was  fitting  a  new  goose-neck  to  the  miz- 
zen  of  the  Yakaboo  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Colonial 
Bank,  word  was  brought  that  I  was  "wanted"  by  the 
Acting  Colonial  Treasurer.  I  knew  from  the  tone  of 
the  demand  that  something  was  in  the  air.  When  I 
was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  that  august  little  per- 
sonage, I  was  asked  with  considerable  circumlocution 
why  I  landed  at  Scott's  Head  before  making  official 
entry  at  Roseau. 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  249 

"Who  told  you?"  I  whispered,  as  if  he  were  about 
to  disclose  an  interesting  bit  of  gossip. 

"The  police  officer  of  Soufriere  telephoned  this 
morning  that  he  saw  your  camp  at  Scott's  Head  on 
Sunday  morning.,,  (It  was  now  Friday,  five  days  la- 
ter.) I  said  that  I  hoped  the  lazy  officer  at  Soufriere 
had  been  duly  reprimanded  for  not  having  reported 
me  sooner. 

"What!"  the  little  man  shouted.  "You  are  the  one 
to  be  reprimanded  for  having  landed  and  not  having 
mentioned  the  fact  when  you  gave  up  your  papers  at 
Roseau.  Do  you  know  that  you  are  liable  to  two 
weeks'  quarantine?"  By  this  time  my  ire  should  have 
been  goaded  to  the  loud-talking  point.  I  leaned  for- 
ward in  a  confidential  way  and  whispered  (he  seemed 
to  dislike  this  whispering) ,  "Let's  have  in  the  boatman 
who  took  my  papers  on  Sunday  morning."  They 
might  have  been  the  dying  words  of  some  unfortunate 
victim  of  a  street  accident  asking  for  his  wife  or  his 
mother. 

The  boatman  came  in  due  time  accompanied  by  loud 
tones  of  authority  which  issued  from  his  thick-soled 
boots.  The  weight  of  the  Empire  was  in  every  step. 
Then  I  stood  up  and  looked  hard  into  a  pair  of  hazel 
eyes  while  I  asked  the  owner  if  I  had  not  mentioned, 
when  I  handed  him  my  papers,  the  fact  that  I  had 
spent  the  night  at  Scott's  Head  under  stress  of  weather. 
I  owned  those  eyes  while  he  spoke  the  truth  and  said, 
"Yes." 

"Don't  you  know,  Mr.  S ,"  I  asked,  "that  under 

stress  of  weather — my  mizzen  having  blown  away — I 
may  land  at  any  convenient  beach  and  then  proceed  to 


250  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

the  nearest  port  as  soon  as  repairs  are  effected  ?"  One 
would  think  that  we  were  talking  about  some  great 
steamer  instead  of  a  sailing  canoe.  I  did  not,  however, 
mention  my  visit  to  the  village  on  the  peninsula. 

When  the  Yakaboo  was  ready  for  sea  again,  I 
chucked  her  into  the  basement  of  the  Colonial  Bank 
and  started  on  a  land  cruise  through  the  hills  of  the 
island.  I  would  hire  a  small  horse  and  circumnavigate 
the  island  on  its  back,  carrying  with  me  a  couple  of 
blankets,  a  pail  and  a  frypan.    But  the  idyl  stops  there. 

Soon  after  I  arrived  at  Roseau,  word  came  to  me 

that  a  Mr.  B of  Chicago  was  visiting  his  uncle  on 

a  plantation  near  the  town.  It  turned  out  that  I  knew 
this  man  and  in  the  course  of  time  we  met.  When  he 
heard  of  my  plan  to  ride  around  the  island,  he  em- 
braced the  idea  with  great  warmth — as  some  would  put 
it — in  fact  he  not  only  embraced  it;  he  adopted  it  and 
when  it  came  back  to  me  it  was  entirely  changed.  It 
no  longer  belonged  to  me,  it  was  a  sad  little  stranger 
whom  I  knew  not.  Instead  of  camping  near  the  road- 
side with  a  bully  fire  at  night  and  the  horses  tethered 
close-by,  this  was  all  done  away  with  by  means  of 
letters  of  introduction.  Our  blankets  and  our  pots  and 
pans  were  whisked  away  by  folded  pieces  of  paper  in- 
side of  other  pieces  of  paper.  Our  food  we  need  no 
longer  trouble  about.  I  felt  like  asking,  "Please, 
ma'am,  may  I  take  a  little  eating  chocolate  and  my 
pipe  and  tobacco?" 

It  was  on  Friday  then,  oh,  unlucky  day  for  the  skip- 
per of  the  Yakaboo/  that  I  obtained  a  pony  from  the 
harbour-master.  I  did  not  see  the  horse  till  the  next 
morning — a  few  minutes  before  the  start  which  was 


UNSET ST.    PIERRE. 


RUINS    OF    THE    CATHEDRAL. 


>:i 


<   »■    ' 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  251 

scheduled  for  eight  o'clock.     I  have  inferred  that  there 

is  but  little  humour  or  the  sense  of  it  in  the  English 

islands,  at  least,  but  this  animal  was  a  pun — the  lowest 

form  of  humour.     To  have  called  him  a  joke  would 

have  put  a  burden  on  him  that  would  eventually  have 

!  swayed  his  back  till  a  fifth  wheel  would  have  been 

necessary  to  keep  his  poor  paunch  off  the  ground.    And 

as  for  that  poor  paunch — there  was  the  seat  of  all  the 

|  trouble.     It  had  not  been  filled  often  enough  nor  full 

i|  enough  and  as  in  nature  we  come  to  liken  the  things 

|j  we  eat,  this  poor  beast  was  becoming  of  necessity  an 

I  ethereal  being.     I  asked  the  man  who  brought  it  if  they 

\  taxed  horses  in  the  island  by  the  head  or  by  the  pound. 

j  The  coloured  groom  very  politely  informed  me — for 

j  was  I  not  travelling  in  the  West  Indies  in  search  of 

information? — that  there  was,  of  course,  a  tax  on  every 

horse  in  the  island,  and  as  for  the  pound,  there  was 

a  small  fee  levied  on  every  animal  that  got  astray  and 

was  brought  there.     If  you  were  sitting  with  me  in  my 

cosy  little  cabin  and  we  were  discussing  that  horse  I 

should  say,  "Poor  brute,  I  felt  damn  sorry  for  him," 

in  that  earnest  tone  which  you  would  understand. 

I  am  not  heavy  in  build,  however,  neither  did  I 
have  any  luggage  to  add  weight,  for  a  porter  had  been 
engaged  to  carry  our  extra  duffle  on  his  head.  With  a 
small  cargo  of  chocolate  to  port  and  a  supply  of  to- 
bacco and  matches  to  starboard,  I  adjusted  the  stir- 
rups and  mounted  my  poor  animal.  Even  then  I  felt 
him  go  down  below  his  Plimsoll  marks.  I  wore  my 
ordinary  sea  outfit  which  I  had  carefully  washed.  I 
had  one  suit  of  "store  clothes"  but  I  was  not  going  to 
befoul  them  on  any  uncurried  West  Indian  skate  for 


252  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

any  man,  no  matter  how  exalted  his  position  might  be. 

B ,  rather  chunky  of  build,  arrived  well  mounted 

at  the  stroke  of  the  hour  and  at  a  brisk  canter.  If  he 
were  not  what  one  might  call  au  fait,  he  bore  some  as- 
pects of  the  gentleman-rider  even  if  he  wore  his  trous- 
ers stuffed  into  leggings  instead  of  "breeks."  He  had 
apparently  noticed  that  there  was  a  figure  mounted  on 
a  horse  by  the  roadside  but  until  he  was  close  upon 
me  he  did  not  realise  that  this  was  to  accompany  him 
on  his  ride  around  the  island.  When  he  recognised 
me  his  face  fell  like  a  topsail  taken  aback  and  he  in- 
stinctively looked  around  to  see  if  any  one  saw  him 
with  me. 

"Good  God!"  he  muttered,  "you're  not  going  to 
ride  in  that  rig,  are  you?" 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  wear  a  hunting  coat  on 
this  caricature,  do  you?    Let's  be  off." 

"Yes,  let's  be  off,"  he  said,  as  he  put  spurs  to  his 
horse  and  raced  along  the  road  toward  Laudat. 

"Let's  be  off,"  I  whispered  into  the  ear  of  my  Rosi- 
nante — for  he  was  a  she — and  with  a  thwack  I  started 
her  clattering  after  my  friend. 

By  careful  husbanding  the  strength  of  my  animal  we 
reached  Laudat  at  ten  o'clock.  That  is,  I  did.  My 
friend  had  arrived  there  several  times  and  had  gone 
back  occasionally  to  note  my  progress. 

Laudat  is  a  little  settlement  nearly  half  way  across 
the  island  where  one  takes  the  trail  for  a  rather 
arduous  climb  to  the  Boiling  Lake  in  the  Soufriere 
mountains.  Through  the  courtesy  of  a  priest  in  Ros- 
eau a  rest  house  was  put  at  our  disposal.  Here  we 
feasted  on  raspberries,  coffee  and  bread,  after  which 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  253 

we  started  for  the  Boiling  Lake.  I  shall  not  weary 
you  with  a  laborious  description  of  a  laborious  climb 
along  a  narrow  trail,  muddy  and  slippery  and  root- 
crossed,  nor  of  the  everlasting  din  of  the  anvil  bird  that 
somehow  makes  a  noise  like  the  ringing  of  steel  against 
iron,  nor  of  the  Boiling  Lake.  The  next  day  we  fin- 
ished our  crossing  and  followed  the  road  along  the 
windward  side  to  the  estate  of  Castle  Bruce  where  we 
stopped  for  the  night. 

The  following  day  we  rode  to  Melville  Hall  where 
we  were  received  by  the  Everingtons.  It  was  along 
this  coast,  somewhere  between  Crumpton  and  Pagoua 
Points  that  Columbus  tried  to  land  on  the  morning  of 
November  3rd,  when  he  gave  Dominica  its  name  and 
then  proceeded  to  the  northward  and  set  foot  the  same 
day  on  the  shores  of  Maria  Galante  which  he  named 
after  his  ship.  From  Melville  Hall  we  rode  to  Hamp- 
stead  and  then  across  the  northeast  corner  of  the  island 
to  Portsmouth. 

Lying  in  the  smooth  waters  of  Prince  Rupert  Bay 
were  three  American  whalers,  a  remnant  of  a  fleet  of 
sixteen  that  had  gathered  there  to  transship  oil.  As 
you  may  remember  from  your  early  American  history, 
the  English  government  has  always  been  extremely 
fond  of  gaining  revenue  through  petty  taxation.  They 
even  tax  rowboats  in  some  of  the  islands  and  in  Saint 
Vincent  the  crude  little  catamaran  on  which  the  Black 
Carib  boy  is  seated  (page  143)  is  taxed  thrupence  per 
foot.  Imbued  with  this  idea,  a  petty  official  of  Do- 
minica once  suggested  to  the  skipper  of  an  American 
whaler  that  he  should  be  made  to  pay  a  tax  for  the 
use  of  the  shelter  of  the  island.     To  this  the  Yankee 


254  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

skipper  replied,  "Go  ahead  and  make  your  law  and 
your  tax,  we'll  tow  one  of  our  own  damn  islands  down 
here  and  use  that." 

I  have  said  little  about  my  Rosinante,  who  seemed, 
somehow,  to  improve  on  the  good  food  she  was  get- 
ting. She  bore  up  well;  I  rode  her  with  a  loose  girth 
and  took  the  best  possible  care  of  her.  If  I  could  only 
nurse  her  for  a  month  or  so  I  might  make  a  present- 
able beast  of  her.  As  it  was,  I  felt  that  I  was  riding 
a  rather  tough  skin  in  which  an  old  piece  of  machinery 
was  moving  with  considerable  lost  motion.  I  remem- 
ber speculating  as  to  what  price  the  harbour-master 
would  charge  me  if  the  mare  died  while  in  my  care  and 
wondering  what  return  I  might  gain  from  her  carcass. 
There  was  this  comfort,  her  skin  was  tough  and  should 
she  drop  on  some  precipitous  path  her  bones  and  eter- 
nal economy  would  not  burst  out  and  go  clattering 
down  into  the  valley  below.  I  was  sure  of  what  might 
be  left  of  her  and  in  a  pinch  I  could  skin  her  and  sell 
the  flesh  to  the  natives,  break  up  the  bones  for  fer- 
tiliser and  use  her  hoofs  for  gelatine.  It  was  an  ab- 
sorbing bit  of  speculation  but  did  not  interest  B , 

whose  mind  was  usually  occupied  with  problems  of 
much  higher  finance.  But  there  was  no  real  cause  for 
worry.  On  the  last  day  we  covered  fully  twenty-five 
miles  of  road  that  was  mostly  up  and  down  hill.  I 
gained  as  much  respect  for  her  as  most  any  West  In- 
dian I  had  met. 

It  was  the  loose  girth  which  caused  me  to  lose  my 
last  shred  of  dignity.  We  were  descending  a  steep 
path  down  the  side  of  a  valley  in  the  bed  of  which 
flowed  a  small  fordable  stream.     There  was  no  mis- 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  255 

hap  until  we  reached  the  river  bank  which  dropped 
away  steeply  to  the  water's  edge.  For  some  unac- 
countable reason  I  and  Rosinante  were  ahead.  Slowly 
Rosinante  felt  her  way  down  the  bank  and  then  stood, 
bow  down,  like  the  Yakaboo  scending  a  sea.  In  a  de- 
tailed description  I  should  have  said  that  she  was  built 
for'ard  somewhat  like  a  cow — lacking  shoulders.  The 
saddle  of  its  own  accord  had  begun  to  slide  forward.  I 
reached  for  her  tail  and  missed  it.  Her  forefeet  were 
in  ten  inches  of  water  while  her  after  props  were  still 
on  dry  land.  Even  then  I  might  have  saved  myself 
by  taking  to  the  after  deck.  Slowly  she  lowered  her 
muzzle  to  the  stream.  There  was  nothing  for  it,  the 
saddle  slid  down  the  sharp  ridge  of  her  neck  and  I 
landed  with  my  hands  in  the  water  as  if  I  too  would 
drink.  As  I  rolled  off  into  the  stream  I  thought  I 
caught  Rosinante  in  the  act  of  winking  her  eye — or 
was  it  only  a  fly  that  bothered? 

Our  land  cruise  ended  that  evening  and  I  bade  good- 
bye to  my  friend.  Rosinante  was  returned  to  the  har- 
bour-master and  I  went  back  to  the  Yakaboo. 

Travelling  up  the  Dominica  shore  I  had  my  first 
taste  of  calm.  It  was  not  the  blazing  calm  that  I  was 
to  experience  a  few  days  later  but  it  was  a  good  fore- 
taste. In  light  weather  there  is  usually  a  calm  spot 
along  the  northern  half  of  the  coast  line  up  to  Prince 
Rupert  Bay.  Just  around  the  bluff  the  trade  strikes 
the  sea  again  and  here  I  set  sail  and  ran  into  Toucari 
Bay  where  there  is  a  little  coast  village.  Here  was 
the  last  bit  of  beach  whence  I  could  make  my  departure 
for  Guadeloupe  and  I  hauled  the  canoe  out  on  the 
sand  at  the  far  end  from  the  village. 


256  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

The  people  came  down  to  the  beach  and  insisted 
upon  carrying  my  canoe  well  up  from  the  water.  They 
asked  me  where  I  was  going  to  sleep  and  I  pointed 
to  the  cockpit  of  the  Yakaboo.  At  this  one  of  the  head 
men  said  that  I  must  sleep  in  the  village.  He  would 
see  to  it  that  a  room  in  one  of  the  houses  was  cleaned 
out  for  me  and  that  his  wife  would  cook  my  evening 
meal.  I  conceded  this  last  point  and  taking  up  my 
food  bags  walked  with  him  to  the  village. 

While  my  supper  was  cooking,  a  woman  came  to 
me  and  asked  if  I  would  see  her  son.  He  was  dying, 
she  thought  (the  native  is  always  dying  with  each  com- 
plaint, however  slight),  and  the  coast  doctor  would 
not  reach  the  village  for  several  days.  I  told  her  that 
I  was  no  medicine  man,  but  she  would  not  believe  that 
I  could  travel  alone  as  I  did  without  some  mystic  power 
to  cure  all  diseases.  I  found  the  boy,  about  eighteen 
years  old,  in  great  distress,  suffering  possibly  from 
acute  gastritis — a  not  uncommon  ailment  of  the  West 
Indian  negro.  I  muttered  some  Latin  a  la  Bill  Nye 
and  gave  him  a  pill  that  could  do  no  harm  and  might 
do  some  good.  I  dare  say  my  diagnosis  and  prescrip- 
tion were  not  much  wider  of  the  mark  than  those  of 
many  practitioners  of  high  repute.  I  was  playing  safe, 
for  if  the  boy  died  subsequently  I  knew  it  not.  I  re- 
turned to  my  supper  of  chocolate  and  jack  fish  and 
then  made  up  my  bed  in  the  canoe. 

Long  before  the  sun  began  to  throw  his  light  over 
the  mountains  of  Dominica  I  had  folded  my  blankets 
and  was  eating  a  scanty  breakfast,  for  the  day  promised 
well  and  I  was  anxious  to  be  sailing.  My  channel 
runs,  so  far,  had  been  boisterous  and  exhilarating,  like 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  25*7 

a  race  from  tree  to  tree  in  a  game  of  blindman's  buff, 
the  trees  being  distant  conical  patches  of  grey-blue 
land;  but  this  run  of  the  Saints  was  a  pleasant  jaunt. 
Seventeen  miles  to  the  northwest  lay  Les  Saintes,  a 
group  of  picturesque  islands  that  stood  out  fresh  and 
green  even  as  I  cleared  Dominica.  Ten  miles  farther 
on  my  course  was  Guadeloupe.  Nineteen  miles  to  the 
northeast  lay  the  larger  island  of  Marie  Galante  and 
when  I  opened  the  Atlantic  to  the  north  of  her  I  could 
make  out  the  hump  of  distant  Desirade. 

It  was  in  these  waters  that  Rodney  caught  up  with 
the  French  fleet  under  De  Grasse  on  the  morning  of 
April  1 2th,  1782.  It  is  difficult  for  us  to  realise  that 
in  these  islands  that  now  appear  to  us  to  be  of  such 
little  importance,  a  battle  such  as  this — the  Battle  of 
the  Saints — should  be  one  of  the  turning  points  which 
led  directly  to  the  supremacy  of  Great  Britain  on  the 
sea.  England  stood  alone  against  the  world.  The 
American  colonies  had  declared  their  independence 
and  Cornwallis  had  surrendered  at  Yorktown.  France 
and  Spain  were  eager  to  end,  once  for  all,  the  power 
of  England's  navy.  The  Dutch  had  been  defeated  off 
the  Dogger  Bank  and  the  year  before,  Rodney  had 
captured  their  island  of  St.  Eustatius  and  unroofed 
Oranjetown,  as  you  shall  see  when  I  take  you  there 
in  the  Yakaboo, 

The  French  fleet  was  considered  a  perfect  fighting 
machine  and  while  De  Grasse  had  thirty-three  ships  to 
Rodney's  thirty-five  they  were  considered  to  have  the 
advantage  on  their  side,  due  to  greater  tonnage  and  a 
larger  number  of  guns  per  ship.  But  the  French  were 
weak  in  one  point  and  that  was  sailing  to  windward — 


258  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

this  was  offset  in  a  measure  by  their  superior  ability  to 
run  off  the  wind  and  escape  from  their  foes,  should  the 
battle  go  against  them.  On  the  morning  of  April  12th, 
Hood  led  the  British  fleet,  which  was  apparently  to 
windward,  while  Rodney  in  the  Formidable  was  in 
the  center.  The  French  fleet  was  in  a  line  parallel  to 
the  English  and  a  safe  distance  to  leeward.  The  wind 
was  evidently  light.  Then,  we  are  told,  ua  sudden  gale 
of  wind  gave  the  British  admiral  his  chance — abruptly 
turning  his  flagship  to  larboard  he  broke  through  the 
French  line."  This  "gale  of  wind"  was  probably  the 
usual  freshening  of  the  trade  at  about  eight  o'clock, 
which  Rodney's  ships  received  first  because  he  was  to 
windward  of  the  French.  By  breaking  into  the  line 
as  he  did,  the  whole  of  Rodney's  fleet  was  concentrated 
on  two-thirds  of  the  French  and  the  English  could  use 
both  broadsides  at  one  time  while  the  French  could 
only  use  one.  In  the  cannonading  which  followed,  a 
rooster  which  had  escaped  from  the  coops  on  board 
the  Formidable  stood  on  the  bowsprit  and  crowed  de- 
fiantly. "It  was  a  good  omen  to  the  sailors,  who 
worked  their  guns  with  redoubled  vigour."  Six  of  the 
French  ships  were  captured  and  the  rest  fled  to  lee- 
ward, mostly  in  a  crippled  condition. 

Rodney  at  this  time  was  sixty-three  years  old,  a 
roue,  a  gambler,  and  crippled  with  gout.  But  he  was 
considered  the  best  admiral  whom  the  British  had. 
Some  years  before,  he  had  fled  to  France  to  escape 
debt  and  it  was  a  Frenchman,  Marshall  Biron,  who 
paid  his  debts  and  made  him  return  to  England  because 
he  did  not  want  to  have  his  country  deprived  of  the 
glory  of  beating  the  British  with  their  best  admiral  at 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  259 

their  head.  It  had  been  too  rash  a  gamble.  Although 
Rodney's  tactics,  in  the  Battle  of  the  Saints,  may  have 
been  thought  of  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  they  were 
first  evolved  by  a  Scottish  minister,  John  Clark  of 
Eldin,  and  were  a  lesson  to  Nelson  who  embodied  them 
in  the  "Nelson  touch"  at  Trafalgar. 

I  passed  close  to  the  Saints  and  looked  with  great 
longing  on  a  pretty  little  fishing  village  on  the  lee  coast 
of  Terre  dy en  Bas.  There  were  some  white  people 
on  the  beach  where  several  smart  looking  fishing  boats 
were  drawn  up  on  the  sand.  I  would  have  given  much 
to  have  been  allowed  to  land  there,  but  I  knew  there 
was  no  port  of  entry  in  the  Saints  and  remembering 
my  Martinique  experiences  I  held  my  course  for  Basse 
Terre  on  Guadeloupe.  Soon  after,  the  wind  left  us 
and  I  rowed  into  the  roadstead  of  Basse  Terre  at  the 
very  peak  of  the  heat  of  a  calm  day,  that  is,  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

It  was  the  eighth  of  May  and  getting  on  toward 
June  when  the  light  winds  and  calm  weather  of  the 
hurricane  season  begin.  There  is  no  doubt  as  to  the 
degeneracy  of  the  white  man  in  the  tropics  due  to  the 
heat.  First  comes  the  loss  of  temper.  I  noticed  this 
in  my  own  case.  I  had  become  short  tempered  and 
swore  at  the  slightest  provocation. 

When  I  rowed  in  close  to  the  seawall  of  the  town 
and  located  a  small  building  where  a  duane  boat  was 
,  hung  in  davits  under  a  roof  to  protect  it  from  the  sun 
I  and  over  which  a  customs  flag  hung  limp  from  a 
staff,  I  felt  that  I  was  reasonably  correct  in  guessing 
that  this  was  the  office  of  the  harbour-master.  There 
were  a  few  loafers  on  a  jetty  that  stood  half-heartedly 


260  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

just  far  enough  out  from  shore  to  clear  the  surf.  I 
addressed  these  as  best  I  could  and  asked  for  the 
harbour-master.  They  did  not  seem  to  understand, 
neither  did  they  care.  I  asked  again  and  louder,  then 
I  flung  my  wretched  French  to  the  oily  sea  and  used 
the  most  concise  and  forcible  English  I  could  com- 
mand— not  that  I  thought  it  would  do  any  good  but 
just  to  let  off  the  steam  of  my  ire.  A  miracle  oc- 
curred! A  head  and  shoulders  became  visible  in  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  customs'  office,  for  such  it  was, 
and  yelled: 

"Keep  your  shirt  on,  old  man,  we're  not  fussy  here. 
Come  right  ashore  and  I'll  take  your  papers  after 
we've  said,  'How  do  you  do.'  "  This  was  the  great- 
est shock  I  had  yet  received  in  the  Caribbean.  When 
I  recovered  myself — I  had  been  standing  in  order  to 
swear  the  better — I  sat  down  to  row  ashore.  Basse 
Terre  is  built  along  an  open  roadstead  somewhat  like 
St.  Pierre  but  with  a  retaining  wall  built  up  from  a 
steep  shelving  beach  to  the  level  of  the  streets  fifteen 
feet  above.  I  beached  the  Yakaboo  under  the  sea  wall 
where  a  number  of  boatmen  lifted  her  up  and  carried 
her  to  a  place  of  safety.  The  English-speaking  har- 
bour-master, who  really  was  an  American,  came  out, 
grabbed  my  hand,  and  led  me  into  his  office. 

"It's  a  darn  small  ensign  you  carry,  but  it  does  my 
heart  good  to  see  it,"  he  said,  and  then  he  began  to 
introduce  me  to  some  of  his  cronies  who  had  been 
helping  him  to  pass  away  a  hot  calm  afternoon  with 
a  gossip  and  a  smoke.  There  were  Henri  Jean-Louia 
(Homme  de  Lettres,  Charge  de  mission  agricole  par 
la  Chambre  d' agriculture  de  Point-a-Pitre  et  le  Conseil 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  261 

general  de  la  Guadeloupe),  and  Hubert  Ancelin 
{Negotiant-Commissionaire,  Secret  air  e-Tresorier  des 
Chambres  de  Commerce  et  a" Agriculture,  Agent  de  la 
Compagnie  "Quebec  Line") — I  am  reading  the  titles 
of  these  dignitaries  from  the  cards  they  gave  me — and 
there  was  a  small  French-looking  man  with  a  great  deal 
of  dignity  who  seemed  very  much  interested  in  every- 
thing we  said. 

Jean-Louia,  the  newspaper  man,  asked  me  if  I  would 
care  for  a  little  refreshment.  I  replied  that  since  I 
was  no  longer  in  a  whisky-and-soda  country  any  liquid 
refreshment  he  might  choose  would  be  very  acceptable. 
In  a  short  time  some  cakes  and  a  bottle  of  champagne 
were  brought  in.  My  health  was  proposed  (there 
were  certainly  no  outward  signs  of  my  immediate  de- 
cline) and  we  drank  the  delicious  wine  in  delicate  cham- 
pagne glasses.  Bum  that  I  was, — you  shall  have  an  ac- 
curate description  later, — if  I  had  been  suddenly 
dropped  into  the  middle  of  a  ball  room  I  would  not 
have  felt  more  incongruous  than  drinking  champagne 
and  eating  bits  of  French  pastry  less  than  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  from  the  time  I  had  left  the  Caribbean  and 
the  Yakaboo. 

But  I  must  bring  forward  the  little  man  who  has 
shown  great  interest  in  our  conversation.  He  was 
dressed  in  white  duck,  trousers  loose  and  baggy,  coat 
with  military  cut,  and  he  wore  moustachios, — a  typical 
Frenchman.  I  had  been  doing  my  uttermost  with  the 
meagre  vocabulary  that  I  could  claim  my  own  when 
I  bethought  myself  of  the  little  man  who  had  listened 
but  had  not  said  a  word.    Neither  had  he  been  intro- 


262  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

duced  to  me  as  yet.  I  turned  to  Magras  and  said  in 
English, 

"And  who  is  this  little  Frenchman  ?"  at  which  the 
"little  Frenchman"  piped  up,  "I'm  no  Frenchman,  I'm 
a  Yankee  but  I  suppose  I've  been  down  here  so  darn 
long  I  look  like  one.  My  name  is  Flower,"  he  con- 
tinued, "and  I  came  to  ask  if  you  would  care  to  spend 
the  night  with  me  at  my  house." 

This  certainly  was  a  day  of  misjudgments  and  for  a 
second  time  I  could  have  been  floored  by  a  mere 
breath.  I  thanked  Mr.  Flower  and  told  him  that  I 
should  be  delighted  to  spend  the  night  with  him. 

There  were  still  two  hours  of  daylight  when  I  left 
the  harbour-master's  office  with  Mr.  Flower,  who  with 
the  energy  characteristic  of  the  small  man  in  the  tropics, 
led  me  through  unshaded  deserted  streets  to  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  to  the  half-ruined  Fort  Richepance 
on  the  banks  of  the  Galion  River.  Basse  Terre  can- 
not be  said  to  be  picturesque;  there  is  an  arid  barren 
aspect  about  the  town  that  would  not  appeal  to  the 
tourist.  That  it  has  been  a  place  of  some  importance 
one  can  see  from  the  military  plan  of  the  wide  streets, 
squares  and  substantial  stone,  brick  and  concrete  houses. 
It  was  evidently  not  laid  out  by  a  civil  governor.  One 
might  easily  reconstruct  a  past  full  of  romance  and 
stirring  incidents,  for  Basse  Terre  was  the  West  Indian 
hotbed  of  revolution  bred  from  the  ferment  in  Paris. 
It  was  here  that  Victor  Hugues  began  his  notorious 
career.  Born  of  mean  parents  in  some  part  of  old 
France  he  was  early  placed  out  as  an  apprentice.  What- 
ever his  character  may  have  been,  he  was  a  man  of 
spirit  for  he  soon  became  master  of  a  small  trading 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  263 

vessel  and  was  eventually  made  a  lieutenant  in  the 
French  navy.  Through  the  influence  of  Robespierre 
he  was  deputed  to  the  National  Assembly.  In  1794 
he  was  appointed  Commissioner  at  Guadeloupe. 
Should  his  life  history  be  written  it  would  be  a  fas- 
cinating tale  of  cupidity,  intrigue,  murder  and  riot — a 
reflection  of  the  reign  of  terror  in  the  mother  country. 
Had  he  been  less  of  a  rogue  France  instead  of  Eng- 
land might  to-day  have  been  the  dominant  power  in 
the  Lesser  Antilles. 

The  next  day  I  experienced  my  first  real  calm  in  the 
tropics.  My  log  reads : — "Tuesday,  May  9th,  191 1 — 
Off  at  8:30  (could  not  disturb  my  host's  domestic 
schedule  in  order  to  make  an  early  start)  and  a  long 
weary  row  along  the  lee  shore  of  Guadeloupe.  Blister- 
ing calm  with  shifting  puffs  at  times.  Deshaies  at  6 
p.  M.  Distance  27  miles.  Beautiful  harbour  but  un- 
healthy— turned  in  at  local  jail." 

I  tried  to  sail  in  those  shifting  puffs  but  it  was  a 
waste  of  time.  The  lee  coast  of  Guadeloupe  is  noted 
for  its  calms  and  on  this  May  day  when  the  trade  to 
windward  must  have  been  very  light,  there  was  at  times 
not  a  breath  of  air.  I  settled  down  for  a  long  row. 
The  heat  did  not  become  intense  till  eleven  when  what 
breeze  there  had  been  ceased  and  on  all  the  visible 
Caribbean  I  could  detect  no  darkened  ruffle  of  its  sur- 
face. The  sun  was  well  advanced  into  his  danger  arc. 
I  had  on  a  thick  pair  of  trousers,  a  red  sleeveless 
rowing  shirt  and  a  light  flannel  over-shirt  open  at  the 
collar  to  let  in  as  much  air  as  possible.  I  made  a  nest 
of  a  bandana  handkerchief  and  put  it  on  my  head.  On 
top  of  that  I  lightly  rested  my  hat.     To  protect  the 


264  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

back  of  my  neck  I  wore  a  red  bandana  loosely  tied 
with  the  knot  under  my  chin — just  opposite  to  the  fash- 
ion of  the  stage  cowboy  who  wears  his  handkerchief 
like  a  napkin. 

Then,  with  the  least  possible  effort,  I  rowed  the 
canoe  along  shore,  rarely  turning  my  head  but  keep- 
ing the  corner  of  my  eye  along  the  shore  which  is  nearly 
straight  in  its  general  trend — a  little  west  of  north. 
From  time  to  time  I  would  stop  and  hold  both  oars  in 
one  hand  while  with  the  other  I  gently  lifted  the  cloth 
of  my  trousers  clear  of  the  burning  skin  beneath.  For 
a  time  I  rowed  with  my  sleeves  down  but  the  burn  of 
the  salt  sweat  and  the  friction  of  the  cloth  more  than 
counteracted  the  benefit  I  might  gain  by  shading  my 
forearms  and  I  rolled  up  my  sleeves  again. 

My  forearms,  one  would  suppose,  had,  after  these 
three  months  of  continual  exposure,  all  the  tan  possible, 
but  I  found  that  after  a  while  the  skin  was  blushing  a 
deep  red  and  somewhat  swollen  and  painful.  The  glare 
from  the  water  was  intense  and  to  protect  my  eyes  I 
screwed  my  face  into  the  grin  of  a  Cheshire  cat,  to 
elevate  my  cheeks  and  bring  down  my  eyebrows.  Try 
it  and  half  close  your  eyes  and  you  will  know  just  what 
I  mean.  The  sea  heaved  in  long  shallow  ground- 
swells  as  though  labouring  heavily  for  breath. 

The  dazzling  beaches  quivered  in  the  heat  waves 
while  the  mountains  stood  up  sharp  and  strong  in  the 
fierce  sunlight.  There  was  not  the  slightest  sign  of  fish 
and  it  seemed  as  though  the  sun  had  driven  them  to 
the  coolest  depths  below.  At  twelve  o'clock  I  stopped 
for  a  few  minutes  to  eat  a  "pine"  the  natives  had  given 
me  at  Toucari  Bay.     This  pineapple  which,  I  believe, 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  265 

was  originally  brought  from  Antigua  where  the  best 
pines  of  the  West  Indies  are  found,  has  a  golden  flesh, 
sweeter  than  the  white  fibrous  fruit  which  we  of  the 
North  know  and  yet  with  all  of  the  tang.  The  core  is 
soft  and  partly  edible  and  one  can  eat  the  whole  of 
one  of  these  fruits  with  a  pleasing  absence  of  that 
acrid  taste  which  leaves  the  after  effect  of  putting 
one's  teeth  on  edge.  There  are  many  fruits  to  which 
we  refer  as  "delicious"  and  "refreshing"  in  our  paucity 
of  descriptive  adjectives  but  these  two  words  cannot 
be  applied  in  a  better  sense  than  in  describing  the  pine- 
apple of  the  Lesser  Antilles. 

Two  o'clock  came  and  then,  thank  the  Lord,  the 
sun  began  to  go  appreciably  to  the  westward  so  that 
by  slightly  raising  the  mainsail  I  could  get  some  pro- 
tection. My  long  pull  at  last  came  to  an  end  when  at 
six  o'clock  I  rowed  into  a  beautiful  little  bay  and 
beached  the  canoe  at  the  very  doorsteps  of  the  village 
of  Deshaies.  The  bay  was  a  deep  pocket  walled  by 
green  hills  on  three  sides  and  open  to  seaward  where 
the  sun  with  a  guilty  red  face  was  hurrying  to  get  be- 
low the  horizon  so  that  he  could  sneak  around  again 
as  fast  as  possible  in  order  to  have  some  more  fun 
scorching  inoffensive  canoe  people. 

The  bay,  a  snug  enough  harbour  for  small  coasters, 
struck  into  the  land  like  a  tongue  of  the  ocean  mottled 
with  shoals  and  coral  reefs  while  the  green  of  the  hills 
was  barred  from  the  blue  water  by  a  narrow  strip  of 
white  sand.  The  charm  of  the  place  was  strong  and  I 
forgot  the  hot  toil  of  the  day  while  I  stood  on  the  beach 
by  the  Yakaboo  and  looked  about  me.  Scarcely  two 
canoe  lengths  from  the  water's  edge  stood  the  outposts 


266  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

of  the  village,  those  meaner  houses  of  the  fishermen, 
the  beachcombers,  and  the  keepers  of  small  rum  shops. 

The  people,  of  the  lighter  shades  of  the  mulatto, 
were  loafing  as  to  the  male  portion  on  this  common 
back  porch  of  beach,  while  the  women  were  busy  over 
ovens  and  coal-pots,  preparing  the  evening  meal.  With 
the  apathy  of  the  island  native  they  had  watched  me 
row  into  their  quiet  harbour  and  had  waited  till  I  was 
actually  on  the  beach  at  their  very  door  steps  before 
they  got  up  from  their  haunches  to  flock  around  the 
canoe.  But  now  there  was  great  excitement.  They 
looked  at  me  and  at  the  canoe  and  there  was  nothing 
they  saw  about  either  of  us  that  was  at  all  familiar. 
To  give  them  a  thrill  I  pulled  on  the  mizzen  halyard 
and  let  it  go  again — the  sail  fanned  out,  crawled  up 
the  mast,  slid  down  again,  and  folded  up. 

Surprise  and  curiosity  showed  in  all  their  features 
but  they  made  no  move  to  touch  my  things,  they  merely 
looked.  Some  one  with  an  air  of  importance  des- 
patched a  boy  for  some  one  else  who  had  official  au- 
thority and  soon  after  the  acting  mayor  came  down  to 
the  beach.  The  mayor,  it  seemed,  was  laid  up  with 
an  attack  of  fever.  The  acting  mayor  was  a  dapper 
little  person,  very  civil,  and  not  at  all  officious.  Could 
he  do  anything  for  me?  I  told  him  that  from  the 
evening  set  I  believed  there  was  promise  of  a  strong 
wind  on  the  morrow  and  that  I  was  now  preparing 
my  canoe  for  an  early  start  in  order  to  jump  the  thirty- 
eight  miles  of  open  water  to  Montserrat  before  the 
trade  might  grow  into  a  gale.  Therefore  I  did  not 
want  to  make  a  camp.  I  also  said  that  I  feared  I  had 
come  to  a  fever  hole — at  which  he  grinned  assent — 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  267 

and  if  he  could  find  some  place  where  I  could  sleep 
without  the  company  of  mosquitoes  I  would  be  deeply 
indebted  to  him. 

He  told  me  that  he  would  place  the  town  "hotel"  at 
my  disposal  and  said  that  while  he  was  attending  to 
my  papers  he  would  get  the  key.  As  for  the  Yakaboo, 
she  would  be  perfectly  safe  where  she  lay  on  the  beach. 
In  the  meantime  I  would  stretch  my  legs  and  see  a  bit 
of  the  town  during  the  few  remaining  minutes  of  twi- 
light. Deshaies  was  of  a  regime  which  had  lasted  un- 
til recent  years  and  the  substantial  houses  of  its  main 
street  reminded  me  of  those  of  our  "before  the  war" 
cities  in  the  Southern  states.  Dilapidation  was  every- 
where; there  were  no  actual  ruins.  The  old  prosperity 
was  gone  .and  the  town  was  waiting  dormant  till  the 
coming  of  that  more  stable  inheritance,  which  is  the 
natural  right  of  a  soil  wonderfully  fertile. 

There  were  iron  grills  and  balconies  and  bits  of 
paved  roadway  and  courtyard  and  there  were  faces 
among  those  easy-going  people  that  took  my  mind  back 
to  Mayero  and  the  descendants  of  the  Saint-Hilaire 
family.  But  the  banded  Anopheles  were  coming  from 
the  Deshaies  River  bed  in  millions  and  I  returned  to 
the  beach  where  I  found  the  acting  mayor  waiting  for 
me.  He  had  borrowed  a  sheet  of  my  note  paper  which 
he  now  returned,  a  neatly  written  document  to  the 
effect  that  I  had  landed  that  evening  at  Deshaies — 
sans  rien  a" anormal — on  my  way  to  Montserrat.  Then 
he  showed  me  a  great  iron  key  and  led  me  across  the 
street  to  that  "hotel"  which  is  less  sought  after  than 
needed. 

It  was  the  town  lock-up ! — consisting  of  a  detached 


268  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

building  of  one  story  and  having  two  rooms,  perhaps 
more  properly  cells,  which  were  heavily  barred  and 
shuttered.  In  the  first  room  a  deal  table  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor.  On  this  I  put  my  food  bags  and 
my  candle  lamp  which  I  lit,  for  it  was  now  dark  out- 
side. There  was  but  one  thought  in  my  mind,  to  get 
as  much  rest  as  possible,  for  the  next  day  might  prove 
a  hard  one. 

I  borrowed  a  coal-pot  and  while  I  cooked  my  supper 
I  chatted  with  the  acting  mayor.  He  was  to  be  mar- 
ried, he  said,  and  that  night  there  was  to  be  a  dance 
in  honour  of  his  betrothal.  He  would  deem  it  a  great 
honour  if  I  would  come  to  the  dance,  but  I  declined, 
saying  that  unless  I  was  very  much  mistaken  the  mor- 
row would  be  the  last  day  for  two  weeks  in  which  I 
might  safely  cross  the  channel  and  that  I  feared  to 
remain  in  this  fever  hole  any  longer  than  I  could  pos- 
sibly help.  To  avoid  the  possibility  of  being  annoyed 
by  rats,  I  carried  my  food  back  to  the  canoe  where  I 
stowed  it  safely  under  the  hatches. 

The  acting  mayor  bade  me  good  night  and  left  me 
to  smoke  my  evening  pipe  on  the  doorstep  of  the  jail. 
After  a  while  the  preliminary  scale  of  a  flute  and  the 
open  fifths  of  a  violin  announced  that  the  ball  was 
about  to  begin  and  I  closed  the  ponderous  door  of  the 
jail  on  the  strains  of  the  first  dance.  I  had  long  since 
put  out  my  light  lest  it  attract  mosquitoes  and  as  I 
made  up  my  bed  on  the  floor  I  heard  the  scampering 
of  rats  in  the  darkness.  I  must  confess  to  a  childish 
horror  of  rats  that  is  even  greater  than  that  of  snakes 
and  I  finally  put  a  new  candle  in  my  lamp  so  that  it 
might  burn  all  night. 


LAND  CRUISE— CALM  OF  GUADELOUPE  269 

I  was  awakened  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  by 
the  acting  mayor  who  was  returning  from  the  dance. 
The  town  did  not  awaken  at  five,  it  seemed,  and  there 
was  no  glowing  coal-pot  to  be  had.  To  my  disgust 
there  was  not  a  stick  in  the  canoe  and  on  the  beach 
there  were  nothing  but  soggy  coco-tree  fronds.  At  last 
a  door  creaked  and  from  the  woman  who  opened  it  I 
bought  some  charcoal.  In  spite  of  my  precautions  of 
the  night  before,  it  was  an  hour  and  twenty  minutes 
before  I  finally  shoved  off  in  the  Yakaboo. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WE   MAKE  OUR   BEST  RUN 

WE  left  the  beach  in  a  dead  calm.  The  sun  was 
nearly  an  hour  above  an  horizon  of  trade 
clouds  and  even  as  I  rowed  I  could  see  the  wind  that 
was  coming  begin  to  darken  the  water  in  patches  to 
the  eastward.  In  half  a-n  hour  the  wind  caught  up  to 
us  and  soon  after  I  set  sail.  We  were  scarcely  free 
of  Guadeloupe  when  the  canoe  began  to  move  with  the 
first  light  breaths,  over  a  long  easy  swell.  Montserrat 
was  a  hazy  blur  on  the  horizon,  and  I  should  have  to 
look  sharp  lest  I  miss  it. 

For  a  while  I  held  directly  for  the  blur,  but  as  the 
wind  freshened  it  began  to  work  into  the  south'ard 
and  I  shifted  my  course  till  I  was  running  wing  and 
wing  with  the  island  two  points  to  weather.  I  did  this 
so  that  later  in  the  day  I  would  not  have  a  hard  wind 
and  a  heavy  sea  directly  abaft — the  most  ticklish  and 
nerve-tiring  condition  for  canoe  sailing.  The  wind  was 
increasing  steadily  and  I  knew  I  was  in  for  half  a  gale 
— and  a  good  run.  I  also  knew  that  while  it  was 
necessary  to  make  as  much  speed  as  possible,  I  should 
have  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  my  gear,  for  if  anything 
crippled  my  rig  for  windward  work  I  was  in  for  an 
adventure  on  the  Caribbean.  This  wind  held  for  a 
week  and  were  I  blown  clear  of  Montserrat  there 

270 


WE  MAKE  OUR  BEST  RUN      271 

would  be  no  choice  but  to  keep  on  with  some  sort  of 
rig  up  till  I  struck  Saint  Croix,  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  miles  away. 

If  ever  at  any  time  on  this  cruise,  I  was  now  sail- 
ing along  the  thin  edge  of  things.  Although  it  was  a 
second  quarter  that  had  come  in  soft,  it  seemed  that 
a  fifth  day  had  slipped  in  somehow  for  the  weather 
was  on  a  rampage.  We  were  nearing  the  end  of  the 
regular  trade  season  and  might  expect  our  almost  in- 
fallible weather  signs  to  break  down.  I  found  that 
my  barometer  showed  but  little  variation  during  the 
time  I  was  in  the  Lesser  Antilles  and  only  kept  tabs 
on  it  in  order  to  note  the  decided  drop  which  might 
indicate  the  approach  of  any  weather  more  severe  than 
the  ordinary  blow. 

As  far  as  I  could  see  to  windward,  north  and  south, 
squalls  were  now  chasing  down  as  though  there  were 
two  conditions  of  wind;  one  a  stiff  breeze  and  the 
other  a  series  of  squalls  moving  independent  of  and 
through  the  first.  The  canoe  was  travelling  so  fast — 
we  were  making  a  good  six  knots — that  I  could  easily 
dodge  most  of  the  squalls  by  tacking  down  the  wind 
like  a  square  rigger.  Once  I  was  actually  running  off 
on  the  port  tack  wsw  while  the  course  from  Deshaies 
was  nw%w.  There  was  no  harm  in  being  thrown 
off  my  course  to  the  south  and  west  for  it  ultimately 
served  to  place  Montserrat  all  the  more  to  windward. 

When  the  wind  which  was  blowing  from  east-south- 
east finally  declared  itself  a  young  gale,  I  found  to  my 
great  relief  that  I  had  worked  my  way  so  far  to  the 
westward  that  my  course  for  the  island  was  now  a  little 
better  than  NwbN.     Instead  of  having  to  run  within 


n%  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

one  point  of  being  dead  before  the  wind  our  course 
was  now  two  points  farther  to  windward.  Nearly 
every  sea  was  breaking  and  we  were  making  a  con- 
tinual succession  of  toboggan  rides,  the  breaking  seas 
at  times  carrying  us  up  the  back  of  the  sea  ahead  so 
that  we  were  actually  travelling  a  little  faster  than  the 
waves  themselves.  This  surf-riding  soon  became  a 
regular  habit  and  I  was  forced  to  reef  the  mainsail 
and  mizzen  lest  the  Yakaboo  turn  end  for  end.  We 
now  slowed  down  to  a  more  reasonable  speed. 

One  might  imagine  that  at  a  time  like  this  I  would 
have  little  chance  for  observation  and  yet  with  my 
senses  alert  to  their  highest  efficiency  there  was  very 
every  sea  was  breaking  and  we  were  making  a  con- 
tinual circuit  from  the  compass  in  my  cockpit  into  the 
belly  of  my  mainsail,  up  the  mast  and  down  again  to 
the  seas  about  me.  Then  they  swung  on  a  quick  cir- 
cuit through  a  hundred  and  eighty  degrees  from  the 
seas  under  our  bows  to  the  squalls  astern,  taking  in 
the  skies  on  their  return. 

It  was  on  this  mind  panorama  that  I  saw  more  dis- 
tinctly than  at  any  other  time  the  manner  in  which  these 
islands  gather  moisture  from  the  trade  clouds.  For  a 
time  after  we  had  left  Deshaies,  Montserrat  moped 
mist-wrapped  on  the  horizon.  Then  slowly  the  heat 
of  the  morning  sun  prevailed  and  the  island  became 
more  and  more  definite  in  outline  till  it  at  last  showed 
clear  and  distinct — a  volcano  on  the  horizon.  The 
island  is  made  up  of  two  peaks  but  from  my  position 
they  were  almost  directly  in  line  so  that  I  saw  only 
the  outline  of  the  southernmost  and  larger,  the 
Soufriere. 


WE  MAKE  OUR  BEST  RUN      273 

The  wind  was  then  blowing  lightly  and  the  sky  was 
clear  of  clouds  except  in  the  east  where  they  were  ad- 
vancing in  droves  with  the  wind  before  the  sun.  The 
trade  overtook  us  first  and  then  came  the  clouds,  fleecy 
and  bulging,  like  ships  before  the  wind,  each  with  a 
squall  under  it.  I  watched  a  small  cloud,  one  of  the 
first  of  the  van,  approach  the  peak  with  unslackened 
speed  till  it  lodged  against  the  mountainside  two  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  sea,  where  it  came  to  a  full  stop. 
It  seemed  almost  to  recoil  a  bit.  Then  it  slowly  em- 
braced the  peak  and  more  slowly  began  to  draw  away 
again  to  the  westward.  When  it  was  finally  clear  of 
the  island  I  saw  that  it  had  lost  half  its  bulk.  Mont- 
serrat  had  taken  her  toll  in  mountain  showers. 

For  a  space  the  peak  was  again  clear  in  outline,  two 
volcanic  curves  that  came  out  of  the  sea  to  meet  three 
thousand  feet  above.  Next  a  large  stately  cloud,  a 
ship  of  the  line  among  the  others,  enveloped  the  peak 
and  came  to  a  stop.  There  it  hung  and  diminished  in 
size  till  it  was  reinforced  by  another  cloud  and  for  the 
rest  of  my  run  the  upper  third  of  the  island  was  hidden 
in  a  cloud  cap,  which  diminished  and  increased  in  vol- 
ume like  slow  breathing. 

The  wind  seemed  to  be  continually  freshening  and 
I  found  that  although  I  had  reduced  my  sail  area  by 
nearly  one-half,  I  was  again  catching  up  to  the  seas 
ahead  and  tobogganning.  I  had  moved  the  duffle  in 
my  cockpit  as  far  aft  as  I  could  and  sat  on  the  deck 
with  my  back  against  the  mizzen  mast.  Just  above 
my  head  I  lashed  my  camera — the  most  precious  part 
of  my  outfit.  At  the  first  indication  of  broaching-to 
I  would  take  hold  of  the  mast  and  force  her  over  on 


274  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

her  weather  bilge  till  she  was  almost  before  the  wind. 
Then  I  would  let  her  come  up  to  her  course  and  hold 
her  there  till  she  took  the  bit  in  her  teeth  again  when 
I  would  have  to  pry  her  back  as  before. 

My  blood  was  up  and  I  told  her  that  she  could  turn 
end  for  end  if  she  wanted  and  tear  the  rig  out  before 
I  would  take  in  any  more  sail.  A  bit  of  anger  is  a 
great  help  at  times.  Another  time,  when  I  go  canoe, 
cruising  on  the  sea,  I  shall  carry  a  small  square-sail 
and  a  sea  anchor  that  I  can  readily  trip.  In  spite  of 
all  my  efforts  it  seemed  that  we  should  be  forced  to 
weather  of  Montserrat  and  that  I  should  have  to  run 
off  for  a  while  to  the  southeast.  But  we  were  sailing 
faster  than  I  suspected  and  at  last  fetched  up  abreast 
of  the  southern  end  of  the  island  and  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  off  shore.  Then  I  brought  her  into  the  wind 
and  hove-to  with  the  reefed  mizzen  and  let  the  wind 
carry  us  into  the  calm  water  under  the  lee  of  the 
island. 

I  looked  at  my  watch  and  found  that  it  was  just 
eleven-thirty.  We  had  made  our  last  long  jump,  the 
most  exciting  of  all  our  channel  runs  in  the  Caribbean. 
We  had  covered  thirty-five  miles  in  five  hours  and  ten 
minutes.  We  had  sailed  thirty-three  miles  in  four 
hours  and  forty  minutes — our  average  speed  had  been 
a  little  more  than  seven  miles  an  hour.  For  some  time, 
however,  after  I  had  made  sail  our  speed  was  not  much 
more  than  five  miles,  and  I  believe  that  the  last  nine 
miles  had  been  covered  in  an  hour,  with  fifty  square 
feet  of  sail  up !  Except  in  a  racing  canoe  I  had  never 
sailed  faster  in  a  small  craft  than  on  this  run. 

The  wind,  eddying  around  the  end  of  the  island,  was 


WE  MAKE  OUR  BEST  RUN      275 

carrying  us  directly  along  shore  and  I  lowered  my 
mizzen  while  I  ate  my  luncheon.  It  was  pleasant  to 
drift  along  without  thought  of  course  and  to  watch 
the  shore  go  by  at  a  three-mile  gait.  I  had  just  settled 
myself  comfortably  in  the  cockpit  when  I  noticed  a 
native  who  had  come  down  to  the  beach  waving  his 
arms  frantically.  That  we  drifted  as  fast  as  he  could 
walk  along  shore  was  good  evidence  that  the  wind  was 
blowing  strongly.  I  learned  afterwards  that  he  thought 
me  to  be  the  sole  survivor  of  a  fishing  boat  that  had 
been  lost  a  week  before  from  Nevis.  She  was  never 
heard  from.  After  I  landed  at  Plymouth  I  was  told 
that  a  sloop  had  been  dismasted  that  morning  in  the 
roadstead. 

At  the  time  it  was  a  genuine  source  of  satisfaction, 
not  that  I  was  happy  in  the  ill  luck  of  the  sloop,  but 
I  regarded  this  as  proof  of  the  sturdy  qualities  of  the 
Yakaboo.  One  must,  however,  always  be  fair  in  such 
matters  and  it  is  only  right  for  me  to  say  that  after 
further  acquaintance  with  the  sloops  of  the  Lesser 
Antilles  it  is  a  marvel  to  me  that  they  stand  up  as  well 
as  they  do.  The  credit  does  not  rest  with  the  Yakaboo 
but  rather  with  the  freak  luck  of  the  West  Indian 
skipper.  God,  it  seems,  has  greater  patience  with  these 
fellows  than  with  any  other  people  who  have  to  do 
with  the  sea — I  have  purposely  avoided  calling  the 
natives  of  the  Lesser  Antilles  sailormen. 

There  was  not  much  in  Montserrat  for  me.  Thirty 
miles  to  the  northwest  lay  Nevis  and  St.  Kitts — step- 
ping stones  to  St.  Eustatius  and  Saba.  A  nearer  in- 
vitation than  these  was  Redonda,  a  rounded  rock  like 
Diamond  off  Martinique  which  rose  almost  sheer  to  a 


276  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

height  of  a  thousand  feet  out  of  deep  water  with  no 
contiguous  shoals,  a  detached  peak  like  those  of  the 
Grenadines — a  lone  blot  with  Montserrat  the  nearest 
land,  eight  miles  away.  On  the  ioth  of  November  in 
1493  Columbus  coasted  along  Guadeloupe  and  discov- 
ered Monserratte,  which  he  named  after  the  mountain 
in  Spain  where  Ignatius  Loyola  conceived  the  project  of 
founding  the  Society  of  Jesus.  "Next,"  says  Barbot, 
"he  found  a  very  round  island,  every  way  perpendicu- 
lar so  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  getting  up  into  it  with- 
out ladders,  and  therefore  he  called  it  Santa  Maria  la 
Redonda."    The  Indian  name  was  Ocamaniro. 

It  was  on  the  morning,  when  I  was  loading  the 
Yakaboo  for  the  run  to  Redonda,  that  I  came  as  near 
as  at  any  time  to  having  a  passenger.  As  I  was  stow- 
ing my  duffle,  there  was  the  usual  circumcurious  audi- 
ence, beach  loafers  mostly,  with  a  transient  friend  or 
two  who  had  come  down  early  to  see  me  off.  The  fore- 
hatch  was  still  open  when  the  parting  of  the  crowd  pro- 
claimed the  coming  of  a  person  of  superior  will,  not 
unaccompanied  by  a  height  of  figure,  six  feet  two — 
strong  and  raw-boned,  the  masculine  negress  of  the 
English  islands.  She  carried  a  large  bottle  of  honey 
and  a  jar  of  preserved  fruits. 

"My  name  is  Rebecca  Cooper,"  she  said  by  way  of 
introduction,  "an'  I  cum  to  ask  if  you  take  a  passenger 
to  Nevis  wid  you." 

I  looked  at  the  cockpit  of  the  Yakaboo  and  at  her 
tall  figure. 

"Oh,  me  seafarin'  woman,  me  no  'fraid.  Oh,  yas,  I 
been  Trinidad — been  aal  'roun' !" 


WE  MAKE  OUR  BEST  RUN      277 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said,  "if  you're  to  be  the  passenger 
the  skipper  will  have  to  stay  ashore." 

"Das  too  bad.  Annyway  I  bring  you  a  bottle  of 
honey  an'  some  Jamaica  plums  an'  cashews." 

I  stowed  the  bottle  and  the  jar  in  exchange  for  which 
she  very  reluctantly  took  a  shilling.  She  lived  some- 
where up  in  the  hills  and  having  heard  fantastic  tales 
of  the  Yakaboo  she  had  come  down  to  see  the  canoe 
and  its  skipper  with  her  offering  of  mountain  honey 
and  preserves.  It  was  unselfish  kindness  on  her  part 
and  she  only  took  the  shilling  that  she  might  buy  usome 
little  thing"  by  which  to  remember  me.  There  are 
many  like  these  in  the  islands,  but  they  are  scarcely 
known  to  the  tourist — sad  to  relate. 

While  Rebecca  Cooper  was  silently  examining  the 
(inoe,  I  took  out  the  clearance  paper  which  the  Col- 
i  lector  oi  Customs  had  given  me  the  day  before.  It 
read   as  follows: 

MONTSERRAT 

Port  of  PLYMOUTH. 
THESE  are  to  certify  all  whom  it  doth  concern, 
that  F.  A.  Fenger 

master  or  commander  of  the  Yakaboo 

burthen  %  tons,  mounted  with 

guns,  navigated  with      men 

Am.       built  and  bound  for  Nevis 

having  on  board 

Ballast 

&  . 

Captain 

hath  here  entered  and  cleared  his  vessel  according  to 

law.     Given  under  my  hand  at  the  Treasury,  at  the 

Port  of  Plymouth,  in  the  Presidency  of  Montserrat, 


278  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

this        18th        day  of  May,  one  thousand  nine  hun- 
dred and  eleven. 

EDWARD  F.DYETT, 

ist  Treasury  Officer. 

It  was  the  "Ballast  and  Captain"  that  made  me 
think.  My  outfit — not  perfect  as  yet,  but  still  the  apple 
of  my  eye — was  put  down  as  "Ballast"  and  to  add 
ignominy  to  slight  I  was  put  down  under  that  as  "Cap- 
tain." I  dislike  very  much  this  honorary  frill — Cap- 
tain— it  is  worse  than  "Colonel." 

The  wind  was  light  from  the  southeast  and  we — the 
Yakaboo  and  I,  for  we  left  Rebecca  on  the  beach  with 
the  crowd — slipped  off  with  eased  sheets  at  a  gentle 
gait  of  three  miles  an  hour. 

The  early  settlers  of  Montserrat  and  Nevis  were 
largely  Irish.  Strange  to  say,  among  the  first  Euro- 
peans to  see  the  West  Indies  were  an  Englishman, 
Arthur  Laws  or  Larkins,  and  an  Irishman,  William 
Harris  of  Galway,  who  sailed  with  Columbus.  We 
are  inclined  to  think  that  the  crews  of  the  Admiral's 
fleet  were  made  up  wholly  of  swarthy  Portuguese, 
Spaniards,  and  Italians.  Churchill,  in  speaking  of 
Redonda,  says  that  most  of  the  inhabitants  were  Irish 
— but  what  they  could  find  for  existence  on  this  almost 
barren  rock  with  its  difficult  ascent  it  is  hard  to  under- 
stand. It  is  true  that  Redonda  proved  to  have  a  con- 
siderable commercial  value,  but  not  till  1865  when  it 
was  found  that  the  rock  bore  a  rich  covering  of  phos- 
phate of  alumina.  The  rock  is  now  nearly  exhausted 
of  its  rich  deposit,  but  I  was  told  in  Montserrat  that  I 
should  find  a  crew  of  negroes  in  charge  of  the  com- 
pany's buildings. 


WE  MAKE  OUR  BEST  RUN      279 

One  must  always  take  the  words  of  early  explorers 
— as  well  as  modern  ones — with  a  grain  of  salt  in 
regard  to  the  wonders  of  nature,  but  when  Barbot 
called  Redonda  a  "very  round  island,  every  way  per- 
pendicular so  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  getting  up 
into  it  without  ladders,"  he  did  not  exaggerate.  When 
I  lowered  the  sails  of  the  Yakaboo  under  the  lee  of 
Redonda,  I  saw  that  the  sides  of  the  rock  rose  sheer 
out  of  the  water  like  the  Pitons  of  Saint  Lucia,  except 
for  one  place  where  a  submerged  ledge  supported  a 
few  tons  of  broken  rock  which  had  tumbled  down  from 
the  heights  above.  This  could  hardly  be  called  a 
beach  and  it  was  no  landing  place  for  a  boat. 

Built  up  from  this  ledge  of  debris  was  a  concrete 
pier  which  stood  some  ten  feet  above  the  water  and 
was  surmounted  by  a  wooden  cargo  boom.  Anchored 
in  the  rock  near  the  pier  was  a  steel  cable  that  ran  up 
like  the  thread  of  a  gigantic  spider  to  a  point  some 
four  hundred  feet  above,  where  I  made  out  a  sort  of 
staging.  I  rowed  close  to  shore  and  shouted,  but  there 
was  no  answer.  Then,  thinking  that  I  was  too  far 
under  the  cliff,  I  rowed  off  a  bit  and  began  to  fire  my 
thirty-eight-forty.  A  voice  from  somewhere  up  there 
shouted  down  to  me  but  what  it  said  I  could  not  under- 
stand. I  located  two  figures  busy  on  the  staging  and 
presently  a  miner's  bucket  began  to  slowly  slide  down 
the  cable.  There  was  something  novel  in  this;  sailing 
up  to  an  immense  rock  in  the  sea,  firing  off  a  revolver 
as  a  signal  to  natives  I  had  never  seen  before,  and 
having  a  bucket  lowered  for  me  from  a  height  of  four 
hundred  feet. 

While  I  was  watching  the  descending  bucket  a  boat 


280  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

with  four  men  in  it  came  from  around  the  end  of  thfe 
rock.  The  sea  being  smooth  they  were  fishing  on  the 
weather  side  of  Redonda  and  when  they  saw  me  they 
came  post  haste  for  they  had  been  expecting  me.  They 
rowed  alongside  and  I  put  aboard  the  duffle  I  should 
require  for  the  night.  Then  we  fastened  the  painter 
of  the  Yakaboo  to  a  large  mooring  buoy  used  by  steam- 
ers when  taking  on  their  cargo  from  lighters  towed 
up  from  Montserrat  when  the  occasion  requires.  I 
very  carefully  examined  the  buoy  with  its  seven-eighths 
chain  and  asked  the  men  if  it  would  hold  the  canoe  in 
case  of  a  blow. 

"Shur !  an'  it's  th'  same  moorm'  we  use  f er  th'  oilan' 
whin  a  hurricane  is  blowinV  said  one  with  a  brogue  as 
broad  as  any  just  over  from  the  Isle.  The  speaker 
was  Frederick  Payne,  as  pleasant  a  native  as  I  had 
found  in  the  islands,  who  if  you  put  him  in  another 
room  and  heard  him  talk  you  would  wager  the  soul 
of  your  maternal  grandmother  against  a  thrupenny  bit 
was  no  other  than  a  red-whiskered  Irishman. 

The  canoe  made  fast,  we  rowed  ashore  and  clamb- 
ered up  the  iron  ladder  on  the  face  of  the  pier.  The 
boom  was  swung  out,  tackle  lowered  and  the  boat 
hoisted  inboard  like  a  piece  of  cargo.  The  bucket, 
which  had  come  down  with  a  load  of  phosphate,  we 
emptied  and  climbed  aboard  for  our  aerial  ride.  The 
winch  was  started  and  we  were  slowly  hauled  up  the 
cable  which  follows  a  ravine-like  cleft  in  the  rock.  On 
either  side  was  a  scanty  growth  of  scrub  brush  and 
cactus  which  seemed  to  grow  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
giving  perches  to  the  noddies  and  gulls  that  eyed  us 


THE    CAPSTAN 


THE   BUCKET 


c   e  i         c 

c     «  c        <■    ' 

*  t  •   ••»  1 


WE  MAKE  OUR  BEST  RUN  281 

from  a  fathom's  length  or  two  with  the  all-seeing  idle 
curiosity  of  a  cash  girl  of  a  dull  afternoon. 

Little  by  little  the  Yakaboo  diminished  in  size  till 
she  looked  like  the  weak  dash  of  an  exclamation  point 
with  the  buoy  for  an  overgrown  period.  The  sea  was 
sinking  away  from  us.  I  took  out  my  barometer  and 
we  watched  the  needle  while  it  swung  from  "Fair"  to 
"Change."  Finally  the  needle  stopped  and  we  were 
hauled  on  the  staging  by  the  two  sweating  natives  who 
had  wound  us  up.  By  an  easy  path,  we  climbed  three 
hundred  feet  more  to  the  company's  buildings. 

What  an  eagle's  nest  from  which  to  look  down  upon 
a  world  of  sea!  Montserrat  was  a  near  neighbour, 
high  Nevis  not  much  farther  off  brought  out  of  the 
place  queer  thoughts  of  school  days  when  Hamilton 
was  a  mere  bewigged  effigy  on  the  glossy  page  of  a 
history  book.  What  right  had  he  to  be  born  down 
here  in  the  Caribbean?  There  was  Antigua  to  wind- 
ward of  the  arc  of  our  cruise;  what  right  had  she  and 
Nevis  to  know  Nelson  whom  our  young  minds  in- 
ferred spent  his  entire  life  at  Trafalgar  and  the  battle 
of  the  Nile?  Edging  out  from  the  weather  shoulder 
of  Montserrat  lay  Guadeloupe  in  a  shroud  of  mist  as 
though  keeping  to  herself  some  ferment  of  a  modern 
Victor  Hugues.  But  the  redundant  thought  was  al- 
ways of  the  riches  that  have  been  in  these  islands  and 
the  extraordinary  selfishness  and  sordidness  that  have 
been  the  motives  of  nearly  every  act  since  the  discovery 
of  the  West  Indies  by  Columbus. 

We  were  too  high  for  the  glare  of  the  sea  and  I 
wandered  about  through  the  whole  delightful  after- 
noon on  the  top  of  the  rock  to  descend  at  sunset  to  the 


282  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

enclosed  verandah  of  the  manager's  house  where  I 
satisfied  a  righteous  appetite  with  a  roasted  chicken  of 
Ethiopian-Irish  up-bringing. 

In  the  morning  I  was  lowered  from  this  giant's 
stepping  stone  and  was  once  more  cockpit  sailing,  in  a 
light  breeze,  for  Nevis.  Except  for  the  distant  sight 
of  a  goodly  "gyaff  topsail"  on  the  first  day  when  I 
skirted  the  Grenada  shores,  I  had  seen  no  indications 
of  large  sharks.  What  had  at  first  been  a  haunting 
bugaboo  had  now  become  a  forgotten  possibility.  We 
were  approaching  the  banks  which  lie  to  the  southward 
of  Nevis  and  I  sat  on  my  blanket  bag,  bent  up  behind 
me  like  a  cushioned  easy-chair  with  a  lazy-back. 

There  was  just  enough  breeze  to  allow  me  to  lean 
with  my  elbow  on  the  weather  deck.  Sharks  were  as 
far  removed  from  my  thoughts  as  the  discussion  of  the 
Immaculate  Conception — I  believe  I  was  actually  de- 
ciding that  my  first  venture  upon  escaping  the  clutches 
of  the  chosen  few  who  guard  our  national  customs 
would  be  a  large  dish  of  ice  cream  which  I  would  eat 
so  rapidly  that  it  would  chill  the  top  of  my  head  and 
drive  from  it  forever  the  memory  of  the  calms  of 
Dominica  and  Guadeloupe.  My  mind  was  fondling 
this  chilly  thought  when  suddenly  the  flash  of  a  yard 
of  rainbow  under  my  bows  announced  the  arrival  of  a 
Dauphin,  or,  as  they  called  them  in  the  days  of  Labat, 
a  Cock  Dorade.  By  the  shape  of  its  square-nosed  head 
I  could  see  that  it  was  the  male  of  the  species.  I  have 
often  wondered  whether  this  was  not  the  dolphin  of 
the  dying  colours — it  surpasses  even  the  bonito  in  the 
marvellous  changes  in  its  hues  when  expiring. 

These  fish  are  common  near  the  northern  coast  of 


WE  MAKE  OUR  BEST  RUN  283 

Martinique.  Pere  Labat  says  that  in  order  to  catch 
the  dorade  without  bait  one  must  troll  with  a  fly  made 
of  two  pigeon  feathers  on  each  side  of  a  hook  and 
smeared  with  dog  grease.  I  watched  him  leisurely  cruise 
for  a  while  back  and  forth  under  the  bow  when  sudden- 
ly there  was  a  mighty  swirl  under  the  nose  of  the  canoe 
and  I  saw  the  greyish  white  torpedo  form  of  a  huge 
shark  heave  after  him.  The  dauphin  was  not  to  be 
caught  unawares — the  Lord  knows  how  long  Mr. 
Shark  had  been  watching  him  from  under  the  shadow 
of  the  Yakaboo — and  the  pair  tore  away  through  the 
sea,  the  shark  a  lagging  second.  After  a  hopeless  dash 
the  shark  gave  up  the  chase. 

I  watched  the  dorsal  fin  make  a  wide  circle  to  wind- 
ward and  then  coming  up  from  astern  he  settled  down 
for  a  comfortable  loaf  under  the  canoe  where  he  could 
again  lie  in  wait  for  a  careless  dauphin  that  might  hap- 
pen along.  I  leaned  o/er  and  watched  him  as  he  hung, 
indolently,  just  to  leeward  of  the  tip  of  my  centerboard. 
Fie  seemed  almost  as  long  as  the  Yakaboo — once  when 
he  drifted  a  little  off-side,  I  got  his  measure,  his  length 
reaching  from  the  forward  point  of  the  canoe's  shadow 
to  the  upright  line  of  the  mizzen;  by  this  he  must  have 
been  a  little  over  twelve  feet  in  length.  If  he  were  not 
as  "big  'roun'  as  a  barril"  he  certainly  would  have  been 
a  good  armful  had  I  jumped  overboard  to  embrace 
him, — but  I  had  no  such  intention.  He  must  have  been 
too  slow  and  ponderous  to  feed  on  such  swift  fish  as 
the  dauphin  unless  he  caught  one  by  surprise  as  he  had 
tried  to  get  this  one  from  the  shadow  of  the  canoe. 

No  wonder  these  fellows  become  desperate  at  times 
and  go  in  packs  like  hungry  wolves  to  some  whale  pas- 


284  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

turage  where  they  can  drag  down  their  cattle  by  sheer 
force  of  numbers  after  the  manner  of  their  land  rela- 
tions. I  had  no  reason  to  believe  he  would  trouble  me 
unless  I  was  foolish  enough  to  throw  something  over- 
board or  otherwise  attract  his  attention  by  leaning  too 
far  out  to  look  at  him.  A  sly  peak  over  the  edge  of 
the  gunwale  was  enough  and  I  made  that  with  my 
arsenal  ready.  What  he  thought  this  could  be  sailing 
so  slowly  above  him  with  a  belly  like  a  fish  and  a  fin 
that  did  not  scull  and  two  white  wings  sticking  up  into 
the  air  from  its  back,  I  don't  know,  for  I  am  as  yet 
unfamiliar  with  the  working  of  a  shark's  mind.  Had 
he  known  there  was  a  tasty  scrap  (pardon  this  subtle 
bit  of  self-flattery)  only  three  feet  away  should  he 
choose  to  butt  that  stiff  fin,  his  actions  might  have  been 
different. 

I  watched  his  wicked  pig  eyes  but  he  did  not  seem  to 
look  up  or  take  notice  of  the  canoe.  He  merely  hung 
there  in  its  shadow,  an  almost  imperceptible  flexation 
of  his  body  and  a  sculling  of  his  tail  being  sufficient  to 
move  him  along  at  three  knots  an  hour.  We  were 
scarcely  two  miles  from  Redonda  when  he  had  come 
back  from  his  dash  after  the  dauphin  and  from  that 
time  for  over  ten  miles,  till  we  were  well  within  the 
Nevis  bank,  he  hardly  varied  his  position  a  foot.  I 
have  somehow  or  other  always  associated  the  presence 
of  sharks  with  calm  weather  and  oily  seas.  The  story 
books  always  have  it  so.  In  the  West  Indies  the  shark 
is  more  in  evidence  during  the  calms  of  the  hurricane 
months  than  at  any  other  time.  On  this  account  the 
French  call  him  requien  which  is  a  corruption  of 
requiem,     Rocheford  says,  "Les  Frangois  &  les  Portu- 


WE  MAKE  OUR  BEST  RUN  285 

gais  luy  donnent  ordinairement  ce  nom  de  Requiem, 
c'est  a  dire  Repose,  peutetre  par  ce  qu'il  a  accoutume 
de  paroitre  lors  que  le  terns  est  serain  &  tranquille 
.  .  ."  (The  French  and  the  Portuguese  usually  call  it 
Requiem,  that  is  to  say  Repose,  perhaps  because  it 
usually  appears  when  the  weather  is  serene  and  tran- 
quil.) At  last  he  slipped  away,  a  gruesome  shape,  to 
cruise  about  ghostlike  on  the  shoals.  I  almost  felt 
lonely  after  his  departure — his  absence  was  like  that  of 
a  sore  tooth  which  has  been  pulled  out. 

The  shark  took  with  him  what  little  wind  there  was 
and  I  rowed  around  the  corner  of  Nevis  to  its  port  of 
entry,  Charlestown.  Nevis  runs  up  into  a  single  peak, 
the  lower  slopes  sweeping  down  to  the  sea  like  a  train 
checkered  with  sugar-cane  plantations.  *  The  island 
seems  more  wind-swept  than  Montserrat ;  it  has  a  fresh 
atmosphere  quite  different  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
Lesser  Antilles — still  it  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  was 
settled  in  1608  by  Englishmen  from  St.  Kitts.  To  me 
there  is  a  singular  fascination  in  going  ashore  in  a 
place  like  this  and  coming  upon  some  old  connection 
with  the  history  of  our  own  republic.  I  had  pur- 
posely loafed  on  my  way  from  Redonda  so  that  I  could 
land  in  the  cooler  part  of  the  afternoon.  As  soon  as 
I  had  shown  my  papers  to  the  harbour-master,  he  said, 
uCan  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"Yes.  Show  me  the  birthplace  of  Alexander  Hamil- 
ton." It  was  like  asking  for  the  village  post-office  in 
some  New  England  seacoast  town.  A  walk  of  two 
minutes  along  the  main  road  brought  us  to  the  place 
where  I  took  a  photograph  of  a  few  ruined  walls. 
Here  I  could  gape  and  wonder  like  any  passing  tourist 


286  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

and  reap  what  I  could  from  my  own  imagination.  They 
tell  me  that  a  famous  writer  of  historical  romance  once 
spent  a  day  here  to  absorb  a  "touch  of  local  colour." 
An  admirable  book  and  written  in  a  style  which  will 
bring  a  bit  of  history  to  many  who  would  otherwise  be 
more  ignorant  of  the  heroes  of  our  young  Republic. 
It  is  history  with  a  sugar  coating  but  the  "touch,"  I  am 
afraid,  is  like  that  artificial  colouring  which  the  tobac- 
conist gives  to  a  meerschaum  that  is  to  become  a  pet. 
In  all  these  islands  there  is  no  end  of  "atmosphere"  to 
be  easily  gotten,  but  what  of  the  innermost  history  of 
these  places? 

Nevis  has  always  been  a  land  of  sugar,  open  coun- 
try and  fertile  and  in  its  time  wondrously  rich — the 
ruins  of  olcf  estates  like  that  of  the  Hamiltons  show 
that — and  in  secluded  places  such  as  the  little  village 
of  Newcastle  on  the  windward  side  with  its  top  bay, 
extremely  picturesque.  But  in  these  places  one  must 
of  necessity  scratch  around  a  bit  and  get  under  the  top 
soil  of  things.  What  about  the  camels  that  were 
brought  here  from  the  East  to  carry  cane  to  the  mills? 
Who  brought  them  here  and  when?  Did  the  young 
Alexander  know  the  sleepy-eyed,  soft-footed  beasts? 
There  were  one  or  two  on  the  island  as  late  as  1875 
and  I  talked  with  a  lady  who  as  a  small  child  used  to 
be  frightened  at  their  groanings  as  they  rose,  toggle- 
jointed,  from  the  roadway  beneath  her  window.  To 
learn  the  intimate  history  of  these  islands  one  must  first 
visit  them  for  acquaintance  sake  and  then  go  to  Europe 
and  dig  up  stray  bits  from  letters  and  manuscripts  sent 
from  the  islands  to  the  old  country.  Of  papers  and 
correspondence  there  is  very  little  to  be  found  here 


WE  MAKE  OUR  BEST  RUN      287 

and  it  is  at  the  other  end  of  the  old  trade  routes  that 
one  must  search. 

I  left  Nevis  on  a  hot  calm  Sunday  morning  for  Basse 
Terre,  the  port  of  St.  Kitts.  The  row  was  twelve  miles 
and  the  calm  hotter  than  that  of  Guadeloupe.  There 
was  no  perceptible  breeze,  just  a  slow  movement  of 
air  from  the  northeast — not  enough  to  be  felt — a  slug- 
gish current  that  stranded  a  ponderous  cloud  on  the 
peak  of  Monkey  Hill,  its  head  leaning  far  out  over  the 
Caribbean  where  I  rowed  into  its  shadow.  When  I 
was  still  half  a  mile  from  the  town  I  stood  up  in  the 
cockpit  and  took  off  my  clothes.  After  I  was  thor- 
oughly cooled  I  enjoyed  a  shower  bath  by  the  simple 
expedient  of  holding  one  of  my  water  cans  over  my 
head  and  letting  the  water  pour  down  over  my  body. 
Then  I  put  on  my  "extra"  clothes.  They  were  extra 
in  that  they  were  clean.  The  shirt  was  still  a  shirt, 
for  there  is  no  alternate  name  for  that  which  had  de- 
generated into  a  mere  covering  for  one's  upper  half, 
but  the  trousers  were  pants.  They  were  clean;  I  had 
done  it  myself  on  the  deck  of  the  Yakaboo.  Some  day 
when  I  build  another  canoe  I  shall  corrugate  a  part  of 
the  forward  deck  so  that  I  can  cling  the  better  to  it 
when  I  am  trying  to  get  into  the  hatch  in  a  seaway  and 
also  so  that  I  can  use  it  as  a  rubbing  board  when  there 
lis  washing  to  be  done. 

The  shade  of  this  cloud  was  something  extraordi- 
nary. At  first  I  thought  there  would  be  a  heavy  down- 
pour of  rain  but  the  air  was  too  inert  and  the  cloud 
hung  undecided  like  most  other  things  West  Indian. 
|  For  the  first  time  in  four  months  I  could  take  off  my 
hat  in  the  daytime !     I  enioyed  this  shade  while  I  could 


288  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

and  I  ate  my  luncheon,  the  canoe  drifting  slowly  north- 
ward on  the  tide.  It  was  just  the  time  and  the  place 
for  another  shark  and  I  thought  of  my  friend  of  the 
Nevis  bank.  I  saw  no  fish  and  threw  out  no  invita- 
tions and  when  I  had  had  my  fill  I  rowed  into  Basse 
Terre  where  I  was  received  by  the  fourth  unofiicious 
harbour-master  I  had  yet  encountered. 

But  we  shall  not  be  long  in  St.  Kitts,  or  Sinkitts 
as  the  authoress  puts  it  by  way  of  a  little  impressionist 
dab  of  "colour."  I  found  some  interesting  old  news- 
papers in  the  cool  library  of  Basse  Terre  where  I  spent 
several  days  reading  the  English  version  of  the  war  of 
1 8 12.  "Now!"  I  promised  myself ,  "I  shall  see  some- 
thing of  the  island  to  which  the  Admiral  gave  his  own 
name."  But  promises  on  a  cruise  like  this,  however, 
are  not  worth  the  wasting  of  a  thought  upon. 


CHAPTER  XII 

STATIA — THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE 

DON'T  waste  your  time  hare/'  he  said  in  the 
swinging  dialect  of  the  northern  islands,  "you 
will  be  among  your  own  at  Statia  and  Saba."  I  had 
met  this  Saba  man  on  the  jetty,  Captain  "Ben"  Hassel 
of  a  tidy  little  schooner,  ex-Gloucester,  and  he  told  me 
of  the  Dutch  islands  and  their  people.  He  was  my 
first  breath  of  Saba  and  my  nostrils  smelt  something 
new. 

Saba  had  been  a  love  at  first  sight  for  I  had  already 
seen  her  at  a  distance  from  the  deck  of  the  steamer 
as  we  had  passed  southwards  in  January.  The  Christ- 
mas gale  which  had  chased  us  down  from  Hatteras 
passed  us  on  to  that  more  frolicsome  imp  of  Boreas, 
the  squally  trade  on  a  "chyange  ob  de  moon"  day.  It 
was  the  same  Captain  Ben's  schooner  that  I  had 
watched  running  down  for  the  island  under  foresail. 
Through  the  long  ship's  telescope  I  had  made  out  the 
cluster  of  white  houses  of  the  Windward  Village, 
plastered  like  cassava  cakes  on  the  wall  of  a  house,  but 
as  I  came  to  know  later,  nestled  in  a  shallow  bowl  that 
tipped  towards  the  Atlantic.  Although  we  were  within 
the  tropics,  it  blew  down  cold  and  blustering  with  an 
overcast  sky  more  like  the  Baltic  than  the  Caribbean. 
I  did  not  then  know  how  I  should  come  to  long  for  just 

289 


290  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

such  an  overcast  sky  to  shut  off  for  a  few  hours  that 
blazing  ball  of  fire  known  to  us  of  the  North  as  the 
smiling  sun.  His  smile  had  turned  into  a  sardonic 
grin.  As  Saba  began  to  grow  indistinct,  the  sharper 
outlines  of  Statia  had  brought  me  to  the  opposite  rail 
and  with  hungry  eyes  I  swept  the  shores  which  were  all 
but  hidden  by  the  obstinate  rain  squall  that  had  come 
down  from  the  hills  and  was  hanging  over  the  cliffs 
of  the  Upper  Town  as  if  to  rest  awhile  before  start- 
ing on  its  weepy  way  westward  to  vanish  later  in  the 
blazing  calm  of  the  Caribbean. 

And  that  is  why  you  shall  hear  nothing  of  St.  Kitts 
for  the  day  after  I  spoke  with  Captain  Ben,  I  was 
again  in  the  Yakaboo.  The  offshore  wind  that  helped 
us  up  the  lee  of  St.  Kitts  carried  with  it  the  sweet 
rummy  odour  of  sugar-cane  that  kept  my  thoughts  back 
in  the  old  days.  Then,  as  we  were  well  up  the  coast, 
there  came  another  odour,  a  mere  elusive  whiff  of  sul- 
phur, that  went  again  leaving  a  doubt  as  to  whether  it 
were  real,  and  my  thoughts  were  switched  to  the  for- 
midable Brimstone  Hill,,  now  towering  above  us  in- 
shore, shot  some  seven  hundred  feet  out  of  the  slope 
of  Mount  Misery  by  a  volcanic  action  which  had  all 
but  lacked  the  strength  to  blow  the  projectile  clear  of 
the  land.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  volcano,  but 
the  action  had  stopped  with  the  forcing  up  of  the  mass 
of  rock  which  now  forms  Brimstone  Hill.  On  the  top 
of  the  rock  is  Fort  George,  one  of  the  most  fascinating 
masses  of  semi-ruin  I  have  ever  seen.  With  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  place  still  clinging  to  me  I  had  read 
Colonel  Stuart's  "Reminiscences  of  a  Soldier."  He  had 
spoken   of  Bedlam   Barracks   through  which   I   had 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  291 

just  been  wandering,  in  his  first  letter  to  England. 
"Bedlam  Barracks,  Brimstone  Hill,  Mount  Misery," 
he  said,  "are  not  the  most  taking  of  cognomens,  but 
what's  in  a  name?" 

Until  recent  years  there  stood  on  Brimstone  Hill 
the  famous  bronze  cannon  which  bore  the  inscription : 

"Ram  me  well  and  load  me  tight, 
I'll  send  a  ball  to  Statia's  Height." 

The  wind  freshened  and  St.  Kitts  with  its  Mount 
Misery  and  Brimstone  Hill  was  rapidly  slipping  by  as 
I  passed  into  the  shoal  channel  where  "Old  Statia" 
stood  up  seven  miles  away.  The  channel  was  "easy" 
on  this  day  and  I  could  give  myself  up  to  that  altogether 
delightful  contemplation  of  the  approaching  island. 
Characteristic  from  the  east  and  west  in  her  similarity 
to  the  two-peaked  back  of  a  dromedary,  Statia  is  more 
striking  when  approached  from  the  south  where  the 
Atlantic  on  its  way  to  the  Caribbean  has  cut  into  the 
slope  of  the  "Quille,"  exposing  the  chalky  cliff  known 
as  the  White  Wall.  Blue,  snow-shadowed,  the  White 
Wall  gives  an  impression  of  freshness  that  seemed  to 
belie  the  weathered  battery  which  I  could  begin  to 
make  out  at  its  western  end.  Here,  during  the  calms 
of  the  hurricane  season,  the  sperm  whale  comes  to  rub 
his  belly  and  flukes  against  the  foot  of  the  cliff  where 
it  descends  into  the  blue  waters  of  the  channel,  to 
scour  away  a  year's  growth  of  barnacles. 

Farther  to  the  westward,  de  Windt's  battery  took 
form,  while  a  thatched  negro  hut  or  two  on  the  lower 
slopes  of  the  "Quille"  were  the  only  evidence  of  human 


292  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

habitation.  Behind  it  all,  the  perfect  crater  of  the 
"Quille"  rose,  covered  with  an  almost  impenetrable 
tropic  verdure  which  had  flowed  up  the  sides  and 
poured  into  the  bowl  as  the  rain,  from  the  time  of  the 
last  eruption,  had  changed  the  volcanic  dust  into  a 
moist  earth  of  almost  pre-glacial  fecundity. 

We  had  hardly  passed  mid-channel,  it  seemed,  when 
the  wind,  eddying  around  the  south  end  of  the  island, 
swept  the  canoe  with  lifted  sheets  past  the  corner  of 
Gallows  Bay,  and  I  found  myself  bobbing  up  and  down 
in  the  swell  off  the  Lower  Town  of  Oranje.  As  I 
lowered  my  rig  and  made  snug,  I  could  see  below  me, 
through  the  clear  waters,  what  had  once  been  a  busy 
quay.  The  long  ground  swell  dropping  away  from 
under  threatened  to  wreck  the  centerboard  of  the  Yaka- 
boo  on  the  ruined  wall  of  a  warehouse  that  had  once 
helped  to  determine  the  success  of  the  American  col- 
onies. On  shore,  an  excited  group  of  negro  fishermen 
had  gathered  from  the  shadows  of  the  broken  walls  to 
join  the  harbour-master  who  had  lumbered  from  his 
hot  kantoor  (office)  to  the  still  hotter  sands,  in  shirt 
and  trousers — and  not  without  an  oath. 

"Watch  de  sea !"  he  yelled  as  half  a  dozen  negroes 
waded  in  up  to  their  waists. 

"Look  shyarp! — now!"  and  I  ran  the  surf,  drop- 
ping overboard  into  the  soapy  foam  while  the  canoe 
continued  on  her  course  riding  the  shoulders  of  the 
natives  to  a  safe  harbour  in  the  custom  house. 

"Oi  see  you  floy  de  Yonkee  flag,"  he  said  in  greeting 
as  I  came  dripping  ashore,  more  like  a  shipwrecked 
sailor  than  a  traveller  in  out-of-way  places. 

uYes.     My  papers  are  in  the  canoe." 


THE    OLD    GUNS    AT    FORT    ORANJE,    ST.    EUSTATIUS.       THE    DATE 
1780    MAY   BE    SEEN   ON    THE   TRUNNION    OF  THE    NEAREST   GUN. 


THE   TOMB   OF    ADMIRAL    KRULL. 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  293 

"No  hurry,"  he  returned,  "the  first  thing  we  do  here 
is  to  have  a  glass  of  rum — it  is  good  in  the  tropics." 

And  so  I  was  welcomed  to  Statia,  in  the  same  open 
manner  that  the  Dutch  had  welcomed  and  traded  for 
centuries,  and  by  the  last  of  a  long  line  of  them — one 
of  the  old  de  Geneste  family. 

While  we  were  drinking  our  rum,  the  harbour-master 
seemed  to  suddenly  remember  something.  Pulling  me 
to  the  window,  he  pointed  up  to  the  ramparts  of  Fort 
Oranje  hanging  over  us. 

"You  know  de  story  of  de  salute? — No? — Well,  I'll 
carry  you  to  de  Gesaghebber  (governor)  an'  to  de 
Fort  an'  we'll  find  de  Doctor — he  can  tell  you  better 
than  I — but  you  can't  go  this  way." 

Nor  could  I,  for  I  had  no  coat  but  the  heavy  dog- 
skin sea  jacket,  chewed  and  salt  begrimed  and  alto- 
gether too  hot  for  the  oven-heat  on  shore.  My  shirt 
of  thin  flannel,  once  a  light  cream  colour,  was  now 
greased  from  whale  oil  and  smoke  stained  from  many 
a  fire  of  rain-soaked  wood.  A  hole  in  the  back  ex- 
posed a  dark  patch  of  skin,  burned  and  reburned  by 
the  sun.  My  trousers  were  worn  thin  throughout  their 
most  vital  area,  the  legs  hanging  like  sections  of  stove 
pipe,  stiff  and  shrunken  well  above  my  ankles  with  lines 
of  rime  showing  where  the  last  seas  had  swept  and  left 
their  high  water  mark.  My  feet  were  bare,  tanned  to 
a  deep  coffee  from  continual  exposure  to  the  sun  in  the 
cockpit. 

The  third  article  of  my  attire  and  the  most  re* 
spectable  was  my  felt  hat,  stiff  as  to  brim  from  the 
pelting  of  salt  spray  and  misshapen  as  to  crown  from 
the  constant  presence  of  wet  leaves  and  handkerchiefs 


294  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

inside.  The  world  may  ridicule  one's  clothing  and 
figure,  but  one's  hat  and  dog  had  best  be  left  alone. 
Still  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  ill  at  ease  or  embarrassed 
for  I  was  entirely  in  keeping  with  my  surroundings. 
Marse  James'  office  was  neat  and  clean  to  be  sure,  but 
outside,  up  and  down  the  beach  there  was  nothing  but 
ruin  and  heart-sinking  neglect. 

A  razor,  honed  on  the  light  pith  of  the  cabbage  palm, 
and  a  tin  basin  of  fresh  water  contributed  largely  to 
the  transformation  which  followed.  Shoes  and  stock- 
ings from  the  hold  of  the  canoe  added  their  touch  of 
respectability.  It  is  remarkable  what  an  elevating  ef- 
fect is  produced  by  a  mere  quarter  of  an  inch  of  sole 
leather.  A  neat  blue  coat  and  trousers  borrowed  from 
the  harbour-master  changed  this  cannibal  attire  to  that 
of  civilisation.  True,  there  was  some  discrepancy  be- 
tween our  respective  waist  measures,  but  this  was  taken 
care  of  by  a  judicious  reef  in  the  rear  and  since  it  is 
hardly  polite  to  turn  one's  back  on  a  governor  there 
would  be  nothing  to  offend  this  august  official.  With 
the  coat  buttoned  close  under  my  chin  so  as  to  show  the 
edge  of  a  standing  military  collar  there  would  be  noth- 
ing to  betray  the  absence  of  white  linen  beneath. 

They  say  that  once  upon  a  time  the  dignity  of  the 
Gesaghebber,  whose  authority  extends  over  an  area  of 
scarcely  eight  square  miles,  was  sorely  tried  by  one  of 
his  own  countrymen.  An  eminent  scientist  who  came 
to  investigate  the  geologic  formation  of  the  island, 
landed  with  much  pomp  and  circumstance,  wearing  a 
frock  coat  and  a  silk  hat.  His  degeneracy,  however, 
was  as  the  downward  course  of  a  toboggan,  for  only 
a  few  weeks  later,  upon  his  departure,  he  dropped  in 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  295 

to  bid  the  governor  good-bye,  attired  in  pajamas,  slip- 
pers and  a  straw  hat  and  smoking  a  long  pipe  that 
rested  on  the  comfortable  rotundity  which  was  all  the 
more  accentuated  by  his  thin  attire. 

I  combed  my  hair  and  with  my  papers  stuffed  in  my 
pockets  set  out  to  climb  the  famous  Bay  Path  with  the 
puffing  de  Geneste. 

Built  against  the  cliff  which  it  mounts  to  the  plateau 
above  in  a  zigzag  of  two  flights,  the  Bay  Path  belies 
its  name.  It  is  in  fact  a  substantial  cobbled  roadway 
with  massive  retaining  walls  run  up  to  a  bulwark  breast 
high  to  keep  the  skidding  gun  carriages  of  the  early 
days  from  falling  upon  the  houses  below.  That  it  had 
been  built  to  stand  for  all  time  was  evident,  but  even 
as  I  climbed  it  for  the  first  time  I  could  see  that  its 
years  were  numbered.  The  insidious  trickling  of  wa- 
ter from  tropical  rains  had  been  eating  the  soft  earth 
away  from  its  foundations  and  making  the  work  easy 
for  the  roaring  cloud  bursts  which  take  their  toll  from 
the  Upper  Town.  The  bulwarks  that  had  comforted 
the  unsteady  steps  of  the  belated  burgher  were  now 
broken  out  in  places  and  as  we  passed  under  the  Do- 
minican Mission  the  harbour-master  drew  my  attention 
to  the  work  of  the  last  cloud-burst  which  had  bared 
the  cliff  to  its  very  base.  There  was  no  busy  stream  of 
life  up  and  down  the  wide  roadway.  As  we  stumbled 
up  the  uneven  cobblestones  we  passed  a  lone  negress 
shuffling  silently  in  the  shade  of  a  huge  bundle  of 
clothes  balanced  on  her  head,  down  to  the  brackish 
pool  where  the  washing  of  the  town  is  done.  Her 
passing  only  emphasised  the  forlorn  loneliness  of  the 
hot  middle  day.     We  gained  the  streets  of  the  Upper 


296  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

Town  where  the  change  from  the  simmering  heat  of 
the  beach  to  the  cool  breezes  of  the  plateau  was  like 
plunging  into  the  cool  catacombs  from  the  July  heat 
of  Rome. 

The  Gesaghebber  was  still  enjoying  his  siesta,  we 
were  informed  by  the  negress  who  came  to  the  door. 
In  the  crook  of  her  arm  she  carried  a  sweating  water- 
monkey  from  St.  Martin's.  She  had  addressed  the  har- 
bour-master, but  when  she  noticed  that  it  was  a  stranger 
who  stood  by  his  side  she  dropped  the  monkey  which 
broke  on  the  flagging,  trickling  its  cool  water  around 
our  feet. 

uO  Lard — who  de  mon?"  she  gasped. 

"Him  de  mon  in  de  boat,"  de  Geneste  mimicked — 
for  as  such  I  had  come  to  be  known  in  the  islands. 

Leaving  the  servant  to  stare  after  us,  we  retraced 
our  steps  to  the  fort  which  we  had  passed  at  the  head 
of  the  Bay  Path.  Saluting  the  shrunken  Dutch  sentry 
who  stepped  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  Port,  we 
crossed  over  the  little  bridge  which  spans  the  shal- 
low ditch  and  passed  through  to  the  "place  d'armes" 
of  Fort  Oranje. 

Forming  the  two  seaward  sides  of  an  irregular  quad- 
rangle was  the  rampart,  its  guns  with  their  hooded 
breeches  pointing  valiantly  out  over  the  roadstead  and 
sweeping  the  approaches  of  the  Bay  Path.  In  the 
angle  where  the  rampart  turns  back  toward  the  town, 
stood  the  flagstaff,  with  topmast  and  cross  trees,  and 
stayed  like  a  sloop,  from  which  the  red,  white,  and 
blue  flag  of  Holland  flapped  in  the  trade  wind.  From 
just  such  a  staff,  held  in  that  stepping  before  me,  the 
flag  of  Holland  had  been  the  first  of  a  foreign  power 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  297 

to  dip.  in  honour  of  the  ensign  of  the  infant  navy  of  our 
Continental  Congress.  From  this  very  rampart  the 
first  foreign  salute  had  been  delivered  to  our  naval  flag 
one  hundred  and  thirty-five  years  before.  Whether 
you  will  or  not  you  must  have  a  small  bit  of  the  history 
of  Statia. 

From  her  earliest  days  Statia  belonged  to  the  Dutch, 
who,  before  the  British,  were  masters  of  the  sea  and 
for  long  years  were  supreme  in  maritime  commerce. 
They  have  always  been  sailors  as  you  shall  see.  The 
policy  of  the  Dutch  has  always  been  for  free  trade  and 
by  this  they  became  rich  in  the  West  Indies.  Oranje- 
town,  on  the  lee  side  of  the  island,  half  on  the  cliff, 
half  on  the  beach,  Upper  and  Lower  Town  as  it  was 
called,  with  its  open  roadstead  where  at  times  two  hun- 
dred trading  vessels  have  lain  at  anchor,  possessed  no 
advantages  except  those  of  free  trade.  Statia  became 
a  port  of  call.  When  our  thirteen  colonies  broke  away 
from  the  mother  country  the  old  Dutch  Republic  sym- 
pathised with  the  young  one  and  the  Dutch  made 
money  in  the  commerce  that  followed.  When  the 
struggle  for  independence  broke  out  Statia  was  one 
channel  through  which  the  colonies  procured  munitions 
of  war.  Every  nation  has  its  blackguards  and  it  seems 
that  English  traders  at  Statia  actually  supplied  to  the 
American  colonists  powder  and  cannon  balls  which  were 
made  in  England  and  sent  to  them  in  Statia.  This 
Rodney  knew  and  he  had  for  a  long  time  kept  a  hungry 
eye  on  the  rich  stores  of  Oranjetown.  If  he  ever  took 
Statia  his  fortunes  would  be  recouped  and — perhaps 
Marshall  Biron  knew  this  when  he  paid  the  debts  of 
the  old  fighting  roue  and  sent  him  back  to  London.     It 


298  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

was  on  account  of  these  English  merchants — "vipers" 
Rodney  calls  them — that  upon  returning  to  the  West 
Indies  one  of  his  first  acts  was  to  loot  Statia.  His 
most  plausible  excuse,  however,  was  because  here  at 
Fort  Oranje,  on  the  cliff  above  the  bay,  the  first  foreign 
recognition  was  made  of  our  naval  flag.  You  shall 
have  the  story  "just  now,"  as  they  say  in  the  islands. 

It  was  on  the  16th  of  November,  1776,  that  the  brig 
Andrea  Doria,  fourteen  guns,  third  of  our  infant  navy 
of  five  vessels,  under  the  command  of  Josiah  Robin- 
son, sailed  into  the  open  roadstead  of  St.  Eustatius  and 
dropped  anchor  almost  under  the  guns  of  Fort  Oranje. 
She. could  have  borne  no  more  fitting  name  than  that 
of  the  famous  townsman  of  Columbus,  who,  after  driv- 
ing the  French  out  of  his  own  country  in  1528,  founded 
the  republic  of  Genoa  and  with  the  true  spirit  of  de- 
mocracy, refused  the  highest  office  of  the  grateful  gov- 
ernment which  he  had  established.  The  Andrea  Doria 
may  have  attracted  but  little  attention  as  she  appeared 
in  the  offing,  for  in  those  days  the  two  miles  of  road- 
stead from  Gallows  Bay  to  Interloper's  Point  were 
often  filled  with  ships.  But  with  the  quick  eyes  of  sea- 
farers the  guests  of  Howard's  Tavern  had  probably, 
even  as  she  was  picking  out  her  berth,  left  their  rum  for 
the  moment  to  have  their  first  glimpse  of  a  strange 
flag  which  they  all  knew  must  be  that  of  the  new  re- 
public. 

Abraham  Ravene,  commandant  of  the  fort,  lowered 
the  red,  white,  and  blue  flag  of  Holland  in  recognition 
of  the  American  ship.  In  return,  the  Andrea  Doria 
fired  a  salute.  This  put  the  commandant  in  a  quan- 
dary.    Anchored  not  far  from  the  Andrea  Doria,  was 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  299 

a  British  ship.  The  enmity  of  the  British  for  Holland 
and  especially  against  Statia  was  no  secret.  In  order 
to  shift  the  responsibility,  Ravene  went  to  consult  Jo- 
hannes de  Graeff,  the  governor,  who  was  at  that  time 
living  in  the  hills  at  Concordia,  his  country  seat.  De 
Graeff  had  already  seen  the  Andrea  Doria,  for  Ravene 
met  him  in  the  streets  of  the  Upper  Town.  A  clever 
lawyer  and  a  keen  business  man,  the  governor  had  al- 
ready made  up  his  mind  when  Ravene  spoke.  "Two 
guns  less  than  the  national  salute,"  was  the  order.  And 
so  we  were  for  the  first  time  recognised  as  a  nation  by 
this  salute  of  eleven  guns.  For  this  act,  de  Graeff  was 
subsequently  recalled  to  Holland,  but  he  was  rein- 
stated as  Governor  of  Statia  and  held  that  position 
when  the  island  was  taken  by  Rodney  in  1781.  The 
Dutch  made  no  apology  to  England.  Two  years  after 
this  salute  of  '76,  John  Paul  Jones  was  not  served  so 
well  at  Quiberon,  for  the  French  gave  him  only  nine 
guns,  the  number  at  that  time  accorded  to  republics. 
This,  of  Statia,  may  well  stand  as  our  first  naval  salute. 
Near  the  flag  stepping  was  a  bronze  sun-dial 
mounted  on  a  base  of  carved  stone,  its  creeping  shadow 
marking  off  the  long  listless  days  of  the  stagnant  island 
as  it  had  measured  the  too  short  hours  of  the  busy 
port.  It  was  like  the  tick  of  a  colonial  clock  in  the 
abode  of  the  spinster  remnant  of  a  once  powerful  fam- 
ily. As  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  rampart  and  looked 
down  on  what  was  left  of  the  Lower  Town,  it  was  hard 
to  realise  that  the  ruined  walls  below  us  had  once  held 
fortunes  in  merchandise  and  that  in  the  empty  Road 
before  me  had  ridden  ships  captained  by  the  same  hard 
shrewd  Yankee  skippers  that  we  still  know  on  our  own 


300  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

coast — skippers  as  familiar  with  the  bay  and  the  rum 
shops  of  Oranjetown  as  their  own  neat  little  gardens 
at  home. 

Forming  the  two  inshore  sides  of  the  quadrangle 
was  a  row  of  one-storied  buildings,  pierced  near  one 
end  by  the  vaulted  Port  through  which  we  had  entered. 
The  largest  of  these,  a  few  steps  above  the  southern 
end  of  the  rampart,  was  built  of  stone.  Here  in  the 
very  room  that  Ravene  had  used  as  Commandant  of 
the  island,  I  gave  my  papers  to  the  present  officer. 
He  was  a  new  arrival  from  the  Old  Country  and  as 
yet  knew  no  other  language  than  the  crackling  speech 
of  Holland.  As  he  took  the  papers,  he  stepped  to  the 
window  and  his  superior  smile  vanished  when  he  saw 
that  there  was  no  boat  lying  in  the  Road.  Mars^ 
James  came  to  my  rescue  in  the  unintelligible  fusillade 
that  followed.  While  the  harbour-master  unsnarled  the 
tangle  of  red  tape,  I  improved  the  opportunity  to  look 
about  me.  In  his  report  of  the  military  defences  of 
the  island  in  1778,  Ravene  describes  the  building  as  a 
stone  structure  having  two  rooms;  the  first  a  sort  of 
council  chamber  and  the  second  a  gun  room.  The  lat- 
ter still  contained  the  old  gun  racks  which  held  the 
modern  descendants  of  the  old  snaphaanen.  He  also 
mentions  the  barred  cellar  beneath,  which  was  used  as 
the  criminal  and  civil  prison.  Some  days  afterward, 
while  poking  about  in  its  musty  depths,  I  found  some 
of  the  old  flintlocks  and  a  pile  of  grape  shot,  rusted  to 
a  depth  of  a  quarter  of  an  inch,  like  those  which  Statia 
furnished  to  the  needy  army  of  Washington.  There 
was  still  use  for  a  jail,  I  found,  for  in  one  of  the  wooden 
shanties  of  that  tumbledown  row  a  negress  was  con- 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  301 

fined  awaiting  transportation  to  the  penitentiary  at 
Curasao.     She  had  an  incurable  mania  for  theft. 

My  papers  duly  vised  for  Saba,  we  again  made  our 
way  to  the  Gesaghebber.  We  found  him,  very  much 
awake  this  time,  in  an  animated  discussion  over  a 
horse  trade  with  the  Medical  Officer.  "Frigid  little 
lump  of  ice !"  I  muttered  to  myself  at  the  curt  nod  he 
gave  me.  The  Doctor  was  another  sort.  A  Welsh- 
man by  birth,  an  American  by  education,  and  a  sailor 
by  nature,  I  found  that  he  had  travelled  widely  and  we 
were  soon  so  deep  in  conversation  that  the  pompous  lit- 
tle governor,  who  knew  no  English,  was  forgotten  for 
the  moment.  The  harbour-master  and  the  horse  trade 
slipped  away  unnoticed.  Another  horse  galloped  in, 
the  hobby  of  the  Doctor. 

"Did  you  know  that  the  original  cannon  used  in  the 
first  salute  to  your  flag  are  still  lying  in  the  sand  where 
they  have  been  thrown  down  from  the  ramparts  of  the 
fort?" 

I  feigned  ignorance,  thus  removing  a  dam  which 
might  have  held  back  some  of  those  interesting  bits 
which  so  often  drift  out  on  the  stream  of  a  story,  un- 
important perhaps  in  itself.  Next  to  the  art  of  sitting 
on  a  log,  the  ability  to  listen  well  is  one  of  the  crafts  of 
life  in  the  open.  And  then,  as  a  diamond,  in  the  vast 
sheet  of  blue  mud  which  flows  over  the  sorting  tables 
of  the  Kimberley  mines,  is  caught  on  the  oily  surface,  a 
new  name  was  spoken,  that  of  a  hero.  Although  I 
have  since  spent  many  hours  in  search  of  it,  I  have  not 
found  it  in  print.  Krull — a  name  which  goes  well  with 
kruit    (powder)    and  canon, — Krull — Krut — Kah-non 


302  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

— the  gallant  Dutch  Admiral  who  fell  in  one  of  the 
most  heroic  sea  fights  of  his  time. 

Rodney,  upon  the  capture  of  Statia,  learned  that  a 
convoy  of  vessels  had  left  the  island  shortly  before  his 
arrival.  They  were  under  the  protection  of  a  lone 
Dutch  man-of-war  in  command  of  Admiral  Krull.  In 
a  letter  of  February  4th,  178 1,  to  Phillip  Stephens, 
Esq.,  Secretary  to  the  Admiralty,  he  says : 

"A  Dutch  Convoy,  consisting  of  30  sail  of  Merchant 
Ships  richly  loaded,  having  sailed  from  St.  Eustatius, 
under  the  protection  of  a  60  gun  ship,  about  Thirty- 
six  Hours  before  my  arrival,  I  detached  Captain  Rey- 
nolds (later  Lord  Ducie)  of  his  Majestie's  ship  Mon- 
arch, with  the  Panther  and  the  Sybil,  to  pursue  them  as 
far  as  the  Latitude  of  Bermudas,  should  they  not  in- 
tercept them  before  he  got  that  length." 

The  slow  sailing  convoy  was  caught  and  Krull  com- 
manded the  ships  to  hold  their  course  while  he  waited 
to  stand  off  the  three  English  men-of-war.  He  was 
killed  in  the  unequal  fight  that  followed.  Lord  Rod- 
ney says: 

"Since  my  letter  of  the  4th  instant,  by  the  Diligence 
and  Activity  of  Capt.  Reynolds,  I  have  the  Pleasure  to 
inform  you  that  the  Dutch  Convoy  which  sailed  from 
St.  Eustatius  before  my  arrival  have  been  intercepted. 
I  am  sorry  to  acquaint  their  Lordships  that  the  Dutch 
Admiral  was  killed  in  the  action.  Inclosed,  I  have  the 
honour  to  send  Captain  ReynokTs  letter;  and  am,  etc." 

In  a  letter  of  February  10th,  he  says: 

"The  Admiral,  who  was  killed  in  the  action  with  the 
Monarch,  has  been  buried  with  every  Honour  of  War." 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  303 

In  spite  of  his  anger  against  St.  Eustatius  and  the 
Dutch,  Rodney  had  only  admiration  for  the  brave 
Krull. 

We  made  our  excuses  to  the  governor  and  were  soon 
scrambling  among  the  ruins  of  the  Upper  Town.  A 
fascinating  mixture  of  substantial  old-world  houses, 
surrounded  by  high  walls  which  gave  the  streets  the 
appearance  of  diked  canals,  of  ruins  and  of  negro 
shanties  palsied  by  the  depredations  of  millions  of  ants, 
Upper  Oranjetown  bore  a  character  quite  distinct  from 
any  of  the  West  Indian  towns  of  the  lower  islands. 
Here  was  no  trace  of  a  preceding  French  regime  to 
give  the  houses  uncomfortable  familiarity  with  the 
streets  and  breed  suspicion  by  their  single  entrances, 
nor  did  the  everlasting  palm  thrust  its  inquiring  trunk 
over  the  garden  walls  like  the  neck  of  a  giraffe  to  in- 
form the  humbler  plants  within  what  was  going  on  in 
the  street.  It  lacked  the  moss-stained  and  yellow- 
washed  picturesqueness  of  Fort  de  France  and  St. 
George's  and  for  that  very  reason  the  novelty  of  it 
was  restful.  Above  all  was  the  feeling  that  here  at 
one  time  had  existed  the  neat  thrift  of  the  Dutch. 
With  thrift  comes  money  and  with  money  comes  the 
Jew.  One  wonders  how  the  Jew  with  his  feline  dread 
of  the  sea,  first  came  to  Statia,  knowing  the  long  bois- 
terous passage  of  those  days.  The  reason  may  very 
properly  have  been  the  excellent  seamanship  of  the 
Dutch  traders.  In  the  early  history  of  Cayenne  we 
are  led  to  believe  that  the  "fifteen  or  twenty  families  of 
Jews"  were  brought  over  by  the  Dutch.  The  Jew 
brings  with  him  his  religion  and  so  we  find  the  ruins 
of  a  one  time  rich  little  synagogue  in  one  of  the  modest 


304  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

side  streets.  Whereas  the  Jew  brings  his  religion  with 
him  as  part  of  his  life,  the  Christian  brings  it  after  him 
as  part  of  his  conscience.  Thus  we  find,  not  far  off,  the 
tower  of  the  Reformed  Church  with  its  unroofed  walls. 
The  Dutch  "Deformed"  Church  as  they  have  called  it 
ever  since  a  hurricane  swept  the  Upper  Town.  In  the 
shadows  of  the  walls  the  Doctor  showed  me  a  long 
line  of  vaults  where  lie  the  old  families,  de  Windts, 
Heyligers,  Van  Mussendens  and  last,  the  almost  for- 
gotten tomb  of  Krull,  with  no  mark  to  proclaim  his 
bravery  to  the  world,  and  what  need,  for  the  world 
does  not  pass  here — the  dead  sleep  in  their  own  com- 
pany in  a  miasm  that  seems  to  come  up  out  of  the 
ground  and  permeate  the  very  atmosphere  of  the 
island. 

As  in  Fort  de  France,  I  became  a  part  of  the  life 
of  Statia;  here  was  a  place  where  I  could  live  for  a 
time.  In  six  hours  I  had  boon  companions.  There 
was  the  Doctor — he  would  always  come  first  and  there 
was  that  inimitable  Dutchman,  Van  Musschenbroek  of 
Hendrick  Swaardecroonstrasse,  the  Hague,  who  had  an 
income  and  was  living  in  a  large  house  in  the  town 
which  rented  at  $8.00  the  month  and  was  doing — God 
knows  what.  His  English  was  infinitely  worse  than 
my  German  and  it  was  through  this  common  medium 
that  we  conversed — Dutch  was  utterly  beyond  my  ken. 

He  used  to  come  of  a  morning  in  his  pajamas,  hatted 
and  with  a  towel  on  his  arm  and  wake  me  for  our  daily 
bath.  In  that  delicious  fresh  morning  which  follows 
the  cool  nights  of  the  outer  Antilles  we  three  would 
scramble  down  to  the  Bay,  the  Doctor  pumping  the  lore 
of  the  island  into  my  right  ear,  the  Dutchman  rattling 


c  *     c       c    c 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  305 

off  outdoor  expedients  into  my  left.  He,  the  Dutch- 
man, was  a  well-built  man,  barrel-chested  and  with  a 
layer  of  swimmer's  fat,  for  he  had  once  been  the  cham- 
pion back-stroke  of  Holland  and  a  skater,  and  had 
geologised  all  over  the  world. 

But  we'll  listen  to  the  Doctor.  Our  favourite  walk 
was  to  Gallows  Bay,where  there  was  a  clean  sand  beach. 
We  walked  in  a  past  that  one  could  almost  touch.  As 
we  took  up  the  Bay  Path,  that  first  morning,  just  be- 
low the  fort  where  a  sweet  smelling  grove  of  man- 
chioneel  trees,  tempting  as  the  mangosteen  of  the  Ma- 
lays and  caustic  as  molten  lead,  made  dusk  of  the 
morning  light,  the  Doctor  touched  my  arm.  There 
in  a  shallow  pit,  two  yards  from  our  path,  lay  seven 
rusty  cannon,  half  buried  in  the  sand.  He  did  not  have 
>;o  tell  me  that  these  were  the  last  of  the  old  battery  of 
eleven  which  had  belched  forth  their  welcome  to  the 
Andrea  Doria.  Some  time  after  the  salute,  the  guns 
were  condemned  and  piled  up  near  the  present  Gov- 
ernment Post-Office  in  the  fort  where  they  remained 
till  the  late  seventies.  At  that  time  an  American 
schooner,  cruising  about  for  scrap  iron,  came  to  Statia 
|to  buy  old  cannon.  The  trunnions  were  knocked  off 
so  that  they  would  roll  the  easier  and  they  were  thrown 
over  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

Iron  cannon,  as  a  rule,  bore  the  date  of  their  cast- 
ing on  the  ends  of  their  trunnions  whereas  the  bronze 
guns  were  dated  near  the  breech.  These  bore  no  date, 
but  they  must  have  been  old  at  the  time  of  the  salute. 
The  schooner  took  four  of  them,  but  did  not  return  for 
the  rest.     So  these  seven  have  remained  as  unmarked 


306  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

and  unnoticed  as  the  silent  grave  of  Krull  on  the  pla- 
teau above. 

Farther  along,  on  our  way  to  the  beach,  was  an  im- 
mense indigo  tank  with  its  story.  In  the  ken  of  the 
last  generation,  a  ship  had  been  driven  ashore  in  a 
southwester,  the  tail  of  a  hurricane.  Most  of  the 
crew  perished  in  the  sea,  but  three  came  safely  through 
the  surf  when  Fate  decided  that  after  all  they  must  join 
their  comrades  on  the  other  shore.  They  clambered 
up  the  broken  walls  only  to  fall  into  the  disused  tank, 
now  filled  with  brackish  water,  where  they  drowned 
like  rats  in  a  cistern. 

Passing  the  walls  of  the  last  sugar  refinery  in  opera- 
tion on  the  island,  we  came  to  the  beach.  A  blue  spot 
in  the  sand  caught  my  eye  and  I  picked  up  a  slave  trad- 
ing bead  of  the  old  days.  It  had  been  part  of  a  cargo 
of  a  ship  bound  for  Africa ;  her  hulk  lay  somewhere  out 
there  in  the  darker  waters  of  Crook's  reef  where  it  had, 
lain  for  the  last  century  or  more,  sending  its  mute  mes-j 
sages  ashore  with  each  southwest  gale,  ground  dull  on 
their  slow  journey  over  the  bottom  of  the  Caribbean. 

The  Bay  was  only  habitable  during  the  early  morn- 
ing hours,  before  the  sun  got  well  over  the  cliff  above. 
The  rest  of  the  day  I  spent  on  the  plateau  where  the 
sun's  heat  was  tempered  by  the  trade  which  blew  half 
a  gale  through  the  valley  between  the  humps,  a  fresh 
sea  wind.  The  active  men  of  Statia  go  to  sea;  there 
is  little  agriculture  besides  the  few  acres  of  cotton  anc 
sisal  that  cry  for  the  labour  of  picking  and  cutting  for 
here  the  negro  is  unutterably  lazy. 

I  used  to  see  from  time  to  time  a  ragged  old  native 
whose  entire  day  was  spent  sitting  in  a  shady  corner, 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  307 

blinking  in  the  sunlight  like  a  mudplastered  turtle, 
dried-caked.  Some  one  must  have  fed  him,  but  I  can 
assure  you  that  this  was  not  done  from  sunrise  to  sun- 
down and  he  must  have  gone  somewhere  to  sleep  but 
during  the  light  of  day  I  never  saw  him  stir.  I  passed 
him  for  the  sixth  time  one  day — I  wondered  what  was 
going  on  in  the  pulp  of  that  brain  pan;  not  conscious 
thought  I  was  certain — when  a  man  hailed  me  from  the 
doorstep  of  what  was  once  a  prosperous  burgher's 
house — a  last  white  descendant  of  that  very  burgher. 
The  excuse  was  a  bottle  of  Danish  beer  but  I  read 
through  that — he  wanted  a  breath  of  the  outside  world 
and  I  gave  him  what  I  had.  He  was  not  a  poor  white 
— just  another  like  de  Geneste,  left  by  an  honourable 
old  family  to  finish  their  book — their  last  page.  He 
lived  with  a  negress  whom  he  extolled  and  not  alto- 
gether in  self-defence.  They  were  married  and  I  took 
lis  word  for  it.  She  was  cooking  and  washing  in  the 
citchen  when  I  came  in  and  at  the  call  of  her  master 
Drought  the  beer  and  glasses  on  a  tray  with  a  peculiar 
grace  mixed  with  an  air  of  wifely  right — there  was  no 
defiance  in  her  bearing  but  there  was  that  which  I 
might  best  describe  as  an  African  comme  il  faut. 
There  was  no  attempt  at  an  introduction  and  she  left 
us  immediately  to  resume  her  labours.  We  sat  on  a 
broken  sofa — they  wear  out  and  break  down  in  Statia 
exactly  as  they  do  in  some  of  the  houses  we  know  where 
first  cost  is  the  only  cost — but  here  they  never  go  to 
the  woodshed.  I  happened  to  glance  through  an  open 
doorway  into  what  was  once  a  drawing  room  and  there, 
reared  up  like  a  rocking  horse  about  to  charge  forward 
Tom  its  hind  legs,  was  a  barber's  chair. 


308  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

"What  in  the  name  of  Sin  have  you  got  that  in 
there  for?" 

"Oh,  oy  cuts  hair,"  he  answered  with  that  soft 
weatherworn  tone  that  belongs  to  Statia  alone. 
Whether  this  hair  cutting  was  a  partial  means  of  liveli- 
hood or  merely  a  pastime  for  the  accommodation  of  his 
friends  I  did  not  ask.  I  was  not  even  inquisitive 
enough  to  ask  how  the  thing  came  to  the  island.  My 
host  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  have  my  hair  trimmed 
and  I  said  that  I  should  be  delighted.  It  was  like 
accepting  another  bottle  of  beer.  I  adjusted  my  bones 
to  the  cadaverous  red  upholstery  that  showed  its  stuff- 
ing while  my  friend  tied  the  apron  around  my  neck. 
He  did  no  worse  than  many  a  country  barber  I  have 
met  and  with  less  danger  from  showerings  of  tonics 
and  laying  on  of  salves.  Instead  of  fetid  breathings 
of  Religion,  Politics  and  League  Baseball,  I  listened  to 
tales  of  old  Statia.  Some  time  when  I  am  dining  out 
and  find  an  old  Statia  name  beside  me — there  are  many 
in  our  eastern  cities — I  may  be  tempted  to  say,  "Gra- 
cious !  are  you  a  de ?    I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  a 

haircut  in  your  great  grandfather's  drawing  room." 

It  was  while  I  was  in  the  barber's  chair  that  I  was 
a  witness  to  a  scene  that  many  times  since  has  made  me 
stop  whatever  I  have  been  doing — and  think  a  bit. 
A  sloop  was  lying  in  the  roadstead  bound  that  eve- 
ning for  Porto  Rico.  One  of  her  passengers-to-be  was 
the  coloured  son  of  this  man,  who  would  seek  his  for- 
tune in  the  more  prosperous  American  island.  The 
boy  had  been  about  town  for  a  last  palaver  with  his 
friends  and  now,  in  the  late  afternoon,  had  come  to  his 
home  to   say   good-bye.     He   had   already   seen   his 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  309 

mother  and  now  came  in  where  his  father  was  cutting 
my  hair.  Oh,  the  irony  of  that  parting!  The  boy 
showed  little  concern — he  was  perhaps  eighteen  and 
dressed  in  store  clothes  of  Yankee  cut.  It  was  the  poor 
miserable  father  who  was  hurt — a  white  man  breaking 
down  over  the  parting  with  his  rather  indifferent  col- 
oured offspring.  My  friend  excused  himself  to  me  and 
then  putting  his  arms  around  the  boy's  neck  sobbed  his 
farewell  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  His  was  a  figure  equal 
to  the  mad  woman  of  St.  Pierre,  to  his  last  shred  pa- 
ternal. I  could  say  more  but  this  is  enough ;  may  I  be 
forgiven  this  intimate  picture. 

One  morning  the  town  awoke  to  find  that  a  Dutch 
man-of-war  was  lying  in  the  Roads  and  then  Statia 
came  to  life  for  two  days.  The  ship  was  the  Utrecht, 
an  armoured  cruiser  stationed  in  the  West  Indies.  In 
the  late  afternoon  the  ship's  band  climbed  the  Bay 
Path  to  the  fort  where  I  listened  to  the  concert  and 
struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  a  Russian  captain  of 
marines  who  cared  not  a  whit  for  the  beauties  of  the 
dying  day  and  cursed  the  sun  for  his  everlasting  smile 
and  prayed  for  a  day  of  the  grey  weather  of  the  Bal- 
tic. To  tell  the  truth  I  was  coming  to  it  myself.  The 
next  morning  I  saw  him  at  play  with  his  clumsy  Dutch 
marines — they  were  having  landing  drill  and  a  more 
cloddish  lot  I  have  never  seen.  They  landed  in  three 
feet  of  water,  mostly  on  all  fours,  from  the  gunwales 
of  the  ship's  boats  and  one  fellow — I  stood  and 
watched  him  do  it — actually  managed  to  sprawl  under 
the  boat  and  break  his  arm. 

The  grand  event  of  the  Utrecht's  visit,  however,  was 
on  the  night  of  the  second  day  when  a  dance  was  given 


310  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

in  the  governor's  house  in  honour  of  Her  Majesty's 
officers.  Before  the  dance  a  select  few  of  us  were  in- 
vited to  tea  at  the  house  of  Mynheer  Grube,  the  for- 
mer governor.  I  accepted  the  invitation,  borrowed 
some  clean  "whites"  from  the  Doctor,  combed  and 
brushed  my  hair,  and  went. 

There  was  something  very  placid  and  restful 
about  this  home  of  the  old  Dutch  gentleman  and  his 
wife — the  quiet  dignity  of  a  useful  life  frugally  lived 
and  of  duties  conscientiously  performed.  There  were 
old  clocks  and  cupboards  in  it  and  a  Delft  plate  or  two 
just  as  we  find  them  in  our  Dutch  colonial  houses  of 
the  north.  If  you  examine  the  outer  walls  carefully 
you  will  find  a  round  place,  plastered  up  as  though  at 
some  time  a  cannon  ball  must  have  gone  through.  One 
did  and  it  was  not  many  generations  ago  when  just  such 
a  quiet  Hollander  as  Grube  was  living  there  as  Gov- 
ernor. 

It  was  some  time  after  the  looting  of  Oranjetown, 
when  Statia  had  been  sucked  dry  by  the  English  and 
flung  back  to  the  Dutch  like  a  gleaned  bone,  that  a 
French  frigate  in  passing  fired  upon  the  Upper  Town 
just  to  see  the  mortar  fly.  It  was  in  the  trade  season 
and  she  bowled  along,  close  under  the  lee  of  the  island 
with  her  weather  side  exposed  as  if  to  say,  "Hit  me  if 
you  can." 

One  of  her  shots  passed  through  the  very  room  in 
which  the  governor  sat  reading.  His  wife, — I  wonder 
if  she  had  been  in  the  kitchen  overlooking  the  making 
of  some  favourite  dish? — rushed  into  the  room  and 
found  her  husband  calmly  reading  with  the  debris  of 
stone  and  plaster  littered  about  him,  as  though  noth- 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  311 

ing  had  happened.  She  begged  her  husband  in  the 
name  of  all  that  was  sane  to  move  from  his  dangerous 
position. 

"Be  calm,"  said  the  governor,  "don't  you  know  that 
cannon  balls  never  strike  again  in  the  same  place?" 

But  he  was  not  altogether  right.  Down  on  the  beach, 
just  beyond  Interloper's  Point,  lay  the  little  old  battery 
of  Tommelendyk — Tumble-down-Dick  they  call  it. 
There  had  been  but  little  use  for  the  guns  of  late  and 
there  was  no  militaire  now  stationed  on  the  island. 
There  was,  however,  one  man  on  Statia,  a  one-armed 
gunner  whose  blood  was  roused  when  he  saw  the  wan- 
ton firing  of  the  Frenchman.  He  was  working  in  his 
field,  not  far  from  Tommelendyk  and  he  remembered 
that  there  was  still  some  powder  and  shot  left  in  the 
magazine  and  that  one  of  the  guns  at  least  was  in  good 
order  for  signalling  purposes.  He  rushed  down  to  the 
battery  followed  by  his  friends. 

In  a  twinkling  the  breech-hood  was  off  and  the 
gunner  blew  through  the  touch-hole  to  make  sure  that 
the  passage  was  clear.  Measuring  the  powder  by  the 
handful,  he  showed  his  friends  how  to  ram  home  the 
charge  and  the  ball.  By  this  time  the  Frenchman  was 
almost  abreast  the  battery.  The  gunner's  first  shot  was 
a  good  "liner,"  but  fell  short.  He  had  not  lost  his  cun- 
ning in  guessing  the  speed  of  a  ship.  The  impromptu 
crew  reloaded  in  quick  time  and  as  they  jumped  clear 
of  the  smoke  they  gave  a  yell  of  delight.  The  shot 
had  struck  the  Frenchman  in  the  hull  close  to  the  water- 
line.  Two  more  shots  were  planted  almost  in  the  same 
place  before  the  frigate  could  clear  the  island. 

When  she  ran  into  the  choppy  seas  her  crew  found 


312  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

that  their  ship  was  rapidly  making  water.  They  dared 
not  beat  to  windward  to  St.  Martin's  and  were  forced 
to  make  for  St.  Thomas,  the  nearest  port  to  leeward. 
With  her  guns  and  stores  shifted  to  port  she  must  have 
been  a  weird  spectacle  as  she  bore  down  on  the  Danish 
island,  with  a  free  wind  and  heeled  as  though  she  were 
beating  into  a  gale. 

Grube  had  been  Governor  in  the  same  way  that  his 
predecessors  had  held  office — burghers  performing 
their  duty  to  the  state  without  political  influence  and 
by  right  of  a  worthy  life.  We  had  our  tea  and  cakes 
and  drank  our  Curagao  in  the  short  evening  that 
brought  with  it  the  last  music  of  the  band  at  the  fort. 
Then  we  arose  and  went  to  the  house  of  the  present 
Governor  where  most  of  the  white  people  of  Statia 
were  already  gathered  as  one  huge  family.  The  room 
was  on  the  upper  floor — there  are  never  more  than 
two  in  these  islands — to  which  we  gained  access  by  an 
outside  stairway,  from  the  courtyard,  a  most  convenient 
arrangement  by  which  a  large  crowd  of  guests  could  not 
invade  the  privacy  of  the  rest  of  the  house.  Most  of 
the  officers  of  the  Utrecht  were  there  and  the  midship- 
men—young boys  such  as  you  might  meet  at  almost 
any  dance  in  Edgewater  or  Brookline. 

It  had  been  a  long  time  since  I  had  danced  and  I 
revelled  in  this  party  of  the  Governor  of  Statia.  I 
danced  with  Heyligers  and  de  Windts  and  Van  Mus- 
sendens  and  no  end  of  names  that  had  been  in  the 
island  long  before  the  coming  of  Rodney.  I  danced 
with  names  and  my  spirit  was  in  the  past.  The  tunes 
they  played  were  old  ones,  some  of  them  English  and 
some  handed  down  from  the  time  when  the  Marquis  de 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  313 

Bouille  made  the  island  French  for  a  year.  There  were 
quaint  French  themes,  some  of  which  I  recognised.  To 
these  same  tunes,  in  this  same  room,  the  ancestors  of 
these  people  had  danced  many  a  time.  Then  the  orches- 
tra switched  to  more  modern  things — "Money  Musk" 
and  the  old  sailor's  delight  "Champagne  Charlie" 
which  you  will  only  hear  in  our  parts  in  some  wharf- 
side  saloon,  befuddled  through  the  lips  of  some  old  rum- 
laden  shellback.  But  withal  this  ancient  atmosphere 
and  the  dire  poverty  of  these  descendants  of  once  pros- 
perous burgher  families  there  was  no  sadness  at  the 
Governor's  that  night.  If  these  people  were  always 
talking  of  the  glorious  Past  their  introspection  had  not 
made  them  morbid.  They  were  seafarers  and  their 
philosophy  was  a  hopeful  one.  Here  was  the  gather- 
ing of  a  congenial  happy  family.  I  have  never  dropped 
into  a  community  where  I  felt  so  immediately  and 
completely  at  home  as  here  and  at  Saba.  There  is  one 
word  which  applies  to  these  people  more  than  any  other 
and  that  is — Goodhearted.  They  are  not  super-edu- 
cated surely  but  they  have  a  far  wider  knowledge  of 
the  world  in  general  than  our  average  farmer  com- 
munity. They  retain  a  refinement  of  family  which  gen- 
erations of  poverty  have  not  been  able  to  down  and 
they  have  survived  the  fires  of  want  with  a  spirit  that 
is  one  of  the  paradoxes  of  the  world. 

The  orchestra  finally  reached  the  limit  of  its  strength 
and  stopped  playing  through  sheer  exhaustion — they 
were  not  professionals,  just  friends  who  were  glad  to 
do  this  service.  From  time  to  time  one  of  the  players 
would  lay  aside  his  instrument  and  join  the  dancers  for 
a  while  till  by  rote  each  had  had  his  share.    The  end- 


314  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

ing  of  the  music  seemed  to  be  the  accepted  signal  for 
refreshments  and  those  who  did  not  take  up  trays  of 
coffee  and  small  cakes  lined  up  along  the  walls  as  before 
the  dance.  The  coffee  had  an  awakening  effect  but  the 
dance  did  not  continue.  Presently  a  whisper  found 
its  way  from  mouth  to  ear  till  it  reached  Van  Muss- 
chenbroek  in  a  far  corner.  His  perspiring  face  smiled 
assent  and  he  stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  cleared 
room.  In  laughable  broken  English  he  announced  that 
he  would  now  delight  the  audience  with  an  imitation  of 
a  fiddler  crab.  It  was  a  clever  stunt  and  from  the  way 
in  which  he  skittered  about  the  floor  in  arcs  of  wander- 
ing centers  weaving  his  claws  in  the  air,  I  knew  that 
he  knew  beach  life.  And  so  the  second  part  of  the 
evening  was  started.  There  was  no  assumed  modesty 
that  needed  coaxing — whoever  was  asked  deemed  it  a 
pleasure  to  do  his  part  of  the  entertaining;  was  this 
not  a  way  in  which  he  might  honour  the  Governor  and 
his  wife?  The  midshipmen  of  the  Utrecht  entered  into 
the  spirit  of  the  thing  and  one  of  them  sang  a  Dutch 
song.  Most  of  these  chaps  had  been  on  the  Utrecht 
when  she  attended  the  Hudson-Fulton  celebration  in 
New  York  and  for  a  time  we  had  a  bit  of  Keith's  cir- 
cuit on  the  boards.  George  M.  Cohan  did  not  sound 
a  whit  better  than  when  we  hear  him  imitated  at  home. 
There  is  a  limit  to  all  good  things  and  these  people 
live  in  moderation  and  never  reach  the  limit — the  party 
broke  up  when  we  were  all  happily  tired. 

I  became  attached  to  Statia  as  I  had  become  attached 
to  Point  Espagnol  and  Fort  de  France,  but  I  found  that 
little  by  little  my  eyes  sought  the  sea  more  and  more. 
The  channel  was  calling  again  and  peaked  Saba  became 


STATIA— THE  STORY  OF  THE  SALUTE  315 

an  aggravating  invitation.  With  all  the  fascination  of 
the  old  fort  and  the  batteries,  the  stories  of  the  priva- 
teers and  the  brisk  companionship  of  the  Doctor,  the 
call  was  stronger  than  the  present  love,  and  so  one 
morning  I  took  to  the  shimmering  channel  and  left  the 
island  of  England's  wrath  for  her  sister  where  the 
Dutch  rule  the  English. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SABA 

T)  land  at  Saba  in  a  small  boat  you  must  choose 
the  right  kind  of  weather.  If  there  is  no  wind 
you  cannot  sail,  if  there  is  too  much  wind  you  cannot 
land,  for  the  seas  swinging  around  the  island  will  raise 
a  surf  on  the  rocky  beaches  that  will  make  a  quick  end 
of  your  boat.  For  a  week  there  had  been  too  much 
wind.  One  day  the  trade  eased  up  a  bit  and  de  Geneste 
said,  "You  better  make  a  troy  in  de  morninV  I  made 
ready. 

The  next  morning  seemed  to  promise  the  same  kind 
of  day  as  that  on  which  I  rushed  from  Guadeloupe  to 
Montserrat  and  I  feared  trouble  when  I  should  reach 
Saba.  The  wind  was  already  blowing  a  good  sailing 
breeze  and  we  took  to  the  water  at  seven  o'clock  and 
with  Saba  a  little  north  of  wnw  and  the  wind  nearly 
east  I  sailed  west  for  an  hour  wing-and-wing.  Then 
I  laid  my  course  for  the  island.  Half  an  hour  later  I 
was  obliged  to  reef  because  we  were  making  too  much 
speed  in  the  breaking  seas.  "A  fine  layout  this!"  I 
thought,  for  if  I  did  not  reach  the  island  before  the 
surf  ran  heavy,  I  had  visions  of  joining  my  long  painter 
to  all  my  halyards,  sheets,  and  spare  line  and  swimming 
ashore  with  it  to  let  the  canoe  tail  off  in  the  wind, 
moored  to  some  out-jutting  rock  or  perhaps  lying  off 

316 


SABA  317 

under  the  lee  of  the  island  for  a  day  or  two  till  the 
seas  calmed.  It  was  all  unnecessary  worry.  The  direct 
distance  from  island  to  island  was  only  sixteen  miles 
and  I  was  across  before  the  seas  had  grown  too  large. 

Saba  one  might  call  the  Pico  of  the  West  Indies; 
not  as  high  by  half,  but  the  comparison  may  stand  for 
all  that.  From  a  diameter  of  two  miles  she  rises  to  a 
height  of  nearly  three  thousand  feet,  her  summit  lost 
in  the  low-lying  trade  clouds  which  tend  to  accentuate 
the  loftiness  of  this  old  ocean  volcano.  The  West 
Indies  pilot  book  gives  three  landing  places  and  of 
these  I  was  told  by  de  Geneste  to  try  the  south  side  or 
Fort  Landing,  four  cables  eastward  of  Ladder  Point. 

I  knew  the  place  when  I  sailed  in  toward  the  island 
for  there  was  a  little  shack  perched  about  fifty  feet 
above  the  beach  where  the  revenue  officers,  they  are 
called  brigadiers,  sought  shelter  from  the  sun's  heat. 
Above  the  surf  a  fishing  boat  lay  on  rollers  across  the 
rocks,  for  here  is  no  sand.  To  the  westward,  like  a 
terrace,  under  Ladder  Point  was  a  levelled  cobble  beach 
some  twelve  feet  above  the  water  where  they  used  to 
build  sloops  and  schooners  before  they  found  that  they 
could  get  them  better  and  cheaper  from  Gloucester. 
Winding  upward  in  a  ravine-like  cleft  were  flights  of 
steps  hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock  and  connected  by 
stretches  of  steep  pathways. 

The  shack  and  the  pathway  up  the  ravine  were  the 
only  signs  of  human  habitation  and  from  the  barren 
aspect  of  the  island  with  its  low  scrubby  vegetation  one 
would  not  suspect  that  the  steps  and  paths  led  to  the 
homes  of  some  three  thousand  people.  When  I  had 
made  my  rig  snug  and  hoisted  my  centerboard  I  rowed 


318  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

as  close  to  shore  as  I  dared.  As  at  Statia,  a  number  of 
black  watermen  waded  out  into  the  sea  to  lift  the  canoe 
clear  of  the  rocks.  I  rowed  a  bit  to  windward  to  coun- 
teract a  strong  current  and  then  as  we  swept  down  to- 
ward the  men,  I  jumped  overboard  and  swimming  with 
my  hands  on  the  stern  of  the  Yakaboo  I  waited  till  we 
were  opposite  the  men  and  then  shoved  the  canoe  into 
their  arms. 

One  of  the  brutes  might  have  taken  her  weight  on 
his  head  for  my  food  bags  were  flat  and  my  outfit 
thinned  out,  and  for  the  crowd  of  them  she  was  a  mere 
toy  which  they  lifted  clear  of  the  surf  and  carried 
ashore  to  a  couple  of  rollers  without  even  grazing  a 
stone.  The  skipper,  having  a  proper  regard  for  his 
bones,  washed  himself  ashore  like  a  limp  octopus. 

Now  there  was  one  person  whom  I  came  to  know 
in  Statia  but  whom  I  have  not  mentioned  as  yet  be- 
cause our  friendship  really  belonged  to  Saba  and  it 
was  here  she  was  buried  only  a  few  weeks  after  I  left 
the  island.  She  was  a  kindly  elderly  woman  and  a 
good  friend  to  me.  She  had  been  head  nurse  at  the 
Government  Hospital  at  Antigua  and  had  been  under 
the  care  of  the  Doctor  at  Statia  for  some  time.  He 
suspected  cancer,  he  told  me  (she  told  me  that  she  knew 
it  was  cancer) ,  and  since  he  could  do  nothing  for  her, 
he  advised  her  to  go  to  Saba  to  live  up  in  the  air  where 
no  breeze  hung  about  long  enough  to  lose  its  freshness 
and  where  the  chill  of  night  brought  with  it  sound  sleep. 
She  had  gone  on  to  Saba  a  few  days  after  my  arrival 
at  Oranjetown.  One  afternoon  when  I  had  been  com- 
plaining of  dizziness  and  nausea  the  Doctor  gave  me 
a  kindly  shaking  and  said,  "Now  see  here !  you  yellow- 


HERE  FREDDIE  SIMMONS  TEACHES  EMBRYO  SAILOR-MEN,  STILL 
IN  THEIR  KNEE  TROUSERS,  THE  USE  OF  THE  SEXTANT  AND 
CHRONOMETER." 


SABA  319 

headed  Scandihoovian,  you've  had  just  a  little  too  much 
of  old  Sol  and  weVe  made  a  little  plan  for  you,  Mrs. 
Robertson  and  I.  When  you  get  to  Saba,  you'll  forget 
your  kittle  green  tent'  for  a  time  and  you'll  stay  with 
Mrs.  Robertson  till  you're  straightened  out.  Do  you 
mind !"  The  Doctor  could  be  a  bit  fierce  upon  occasion 
and  he  was  a  strong  man  who  would  knock  you  down 
as  soon  as  not  if  he  thought  he  could  right  matters  by 
force. 

So  when  I  picked  myself  up  from  the  wet  rocks  and 
followed  the  Yakaboo  up  the  beach  I  was  accosted  by 
a  white  man,  one  Freddie  Simmons — they  are  for  the 
most  part  Simmons  or  Hassels  here  and  you  can't  go 
far  wrong  in  calling  them  by  one  or  the  other  name. 

He  was  a  young  man,  seafaring  evidently,  not  from 
any  traditional  roughness,  but  from  an  indefinable  ease 
of  gait,  scarcely  a  roll,  and  from  a  way  of  taking  in 
everything  as  he  looked  about  him  as  though  he  were 
used  to  scanning  the  deck  of  a  vessel.  He  had  an  open 
pleasant  face  that  spoke  kindly  before  he  opened  his 
mouth  and  mild  blue  eyes  that  could  not  lie. 

uMy  name  is  Simmons — they  call  me  Freddie  Sim- 
mons."    He  pronounced  it  almost  like  "Fraddie." 

"I'm  a  Freddie  too,"  I  answered  as  we  shook  hands. 

uSo  Mrs.  Robertson  said.  She's  breakfast  waiting 
for  you  up  at  Bottom — I'll  carry  you  there  just  now." 

"How  the  devil  did  she  know  I  was  coming  to-day?" 
I  asked.  Then  he  told  me  how  a  man  up  in  St.  John's 
had  almost  looked  his  eyes  out  for  a  week  watching 
for  me  and  was  at  last  rewarded  by  the  sight  of  a  queer 
rig  that  could  be  no  other  than  that  of  "de  mon  in  de 
3oat." 


320  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

"But  I'll  have  to  stow  my  canoe  somewhere  before 
we  start,"  I  told  him. 

"Oh,  we'll  take  the  canoe  along,"  at  which  he  nodded 
to  four  black  giants  who  lifted  the  Yakaboo  and 
started  for  the  path — two  with  grass  pads  on  their 
heads  where  she  rested  bow  and  stern  while  the  others 
walked  at  each  side  like  honourary  pall-bearers  to 
steady  the  load.  And  so  we  proceeded  on  our  way, 
eight  hundred  feet  up,  to  the  bed  of  an  old  crater 
where  the  town  of  Bottom  lies,  out  of  sight  of  all  who 
pass  unless  they  travel  in  aeroplanes. 

Now  I  am  going  to  take  advantage  of  the  fact  that 
you  are  soft  and  short-winded  and  not  used  to  ciimbing 
flights  of  stairs  and  steep  paths.  While  you  can  do 
little  but  puff  and  perspire  I  shall  tell  you  a  little  of 
this  strange  island.  What  ancient  documents  Saba  may 
have  possessed  were  whisked  up  and  blown  out  across 
the  wide  seas  over  a  century  ago  when  a  hurricane 
swept  the  island  in  1787  and  took  with  it  almost  every 
vestige  of  human  habitation  except  the  low-set  concrete- 
covered  rain  tanks  and  the  tombs  of  the  ancestors  of 
the  present  inhabitants.  For  nearly  a  century  after 
the  island  was  sighted  by  Columbus  probably  no  Euro- 
pean picked  his  way  up  the  cleft  to  the  upper  bowls  of 
the  island.  There  may  have  been  Caribs  living  here 
but  I  have  seen  no  mention  of  them.  When  the  Dutch 
began  active  trading  operations  in  the  West  Indies  in 
the  early  part  of  the  17th  century  we  find  them  (the 
Dutch)  already  settled  in  Statia  and  Saba.  For  nearly 
three-quarters  of  a  century  the  island  lived  in  peace. 
In  1665,  seventy  English  buccaneers  from  the  company 
of    Lieutenant-Colonel    Morgan    who    had    captured 


SABA  321 

Statia,  sailed  over  to  Saba  and  captured  the  island  with 
little  or  no  resistance.  The  main  expedition  returned 
to  Jamaica  but  a  small  garrison  was  left  on  each  of 
the  islands.  Most  of  the  Dutch  inhabitants  were  sent 
to  St.  Martin's  whither  they  returned  later  to  Statia. 
It  is  from  this  small  handful  of  English  buccaneers 
that  were  left  in  Saba  in  1665  by  Morgan,  that  the 
present  white  population  has  descended  and  while  Saba 
has  almost  continuously  belonged  to  the  Dutch  except 
for  a  short  break  in  1665  and  in  1781  and  also  about 
1 801  it  has  been  truly  said  that  here  the  Dutch  rule 
the  English.  There  has  been  little  marriage  outside 
of  the  island  by  these  English  people  and  no  mixing 
with  the  negroes.  Saba  is  the  only  island  in  the  West 
Indies  where  the  whites  predominate  and  the  propor- 
tion to  the  blacks  is  two  to  one.  But  the  greatest  para- 
dox of  all  is  to  see  here  in  the  heights  of  this  island, 
six  degrees  within  the  tropics,  the  fair  skins  and  rosy 
cheeks  whose  bloom  originated  in  old  England  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  the  Second  and  has  kept  itself  pure 
and  untarnished  there  two  and  a  half  centuries. 

By  this  time  you  have  clutched  my  arm  and  stopped 
in  the  pathway  long  enough  to  catch  your  breath  and 
ask,  "Yes,  but  what  do  these  two  thousand  whites  and 
one  thousand  negroes  live  on?"  There  is  little  gar- 
dening and  for  the  most  part  the  men  of  the  island  go 
to  sea  where  they  earn  money  to  support  their  families 
and  keep  their  tidy  little  homes  shipshape  and  neatly 
painted.  As  I  sit  and  write  this,  now  that  I  know  the 
island,  I  can  think  of  no  truer  description  than  that 
given  by  the  Abbe  Raynal  in  1798.  "This  is  a  steep 
rock,  on  the  summit  of  which  is  a  little  ground,  very 


322  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

proper  for  gardening.  Frequent  rains  which  do  not 
lie  any  time  on  the  soil,  give  growth  to  plants  of  an 
exquisite  flavour,  and  cabbages  of  an  extraordinary 
size.  Fifty  European  families,  with  about  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  slaves,  here  raise  cotton,  spin  it,  make 
stockings  of  it,  and  sell  them  to  other  colonies  for  as 
much  as  ten  crowns  (six  dollars)  a  pair.  Throughout 
America  there  is  no  blood  so  pure  as  that  of  Saba;  the 
women  there  preserve  a  freshness  of  complexion,  which 
is  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  of  the  Caribbee  islands.7* 
The  porters,  before  us,  halted  and  the  Yakaboo 
came  to  an  aerial  anchorage  at  the  crest  of  the  path 
where  the  mountainside  seemed  broken  down.  It  was 
in  reality  a  "V"  blown  out  of  the  side  of  an  old  crater. 
No  wonder  the  Yakaboo  had  come  to  a  stop.  She  may 
have  seen  things  unusual  for  a  canoe  but  she  had  by  no 
means  lost  her  youthful  interest — she  was  not  blase. 
There,  before  her,  spread  out  on  the  floor  of  an  ancient 
crater,  was  the  prettiest  village  imaginable.  Cosy  little 
homes,  a  New  England  village  minus  chimneys,  all 
seemingly  freshly  painted  white  with  green  shutters  and 
red  roofs.  To  guard  against  the  "frequent  rains  which 
do  not  lie  any  time  on  the  soil"  the  streets  were  lined 
with  walls,  shoulder  high,  which  were  in  reality  dikes 
to  direct  the  torrents  which  are  suddenly  poured  into 
Bottom  Town  from  the  slopes  which  surround  it.  A 
remarkable  coincidence  that  here,  high  up  in  the  air,  the 
colony  should  use  the  dikes  of  its  mother  country  but 
for  an  entirely  different  reason.  What  struck  me  most 
forcibly  was  that  while  there  was  no  hint  of  monotony 
the  houses  gave  the  outward  appearance  of  a  uniform 
degree  of  prosperity;  here  must  be  a  true  democracy; 


SABA  323 

if  an}7  man  had  more  money  than  his  neighbour  he  did 
not  show  it,  yet  there  was  no  hint  of  greasy  socialism, 
all  of  which  I  found  true  as  I  came  to  know  the  island. 

The  Bottom,  as  the  crater  floor  is  called,  is  a  circular 
plain  about  half  a  mile  in  diameter  and  surrounded  on 
all  sides  by  a  steep  wall,  continuous  except  where  we 
stood  at  the  top  of  the  path  from  the  South  Landing 
which  we  had  just  climbed  and  at  another  point  on  the 
west  side  where  the  rim  is  broken  and  the  path  called 
the  Ladder  descends  to  the  West  Landing.  Up  the 
rim  on  the  eastern  side  a  path  zigzagged  and  dis- 
appeared through  a  notch  in  the  outline  to  the  Wind- 
ward Side,  the  village  I  had  seen  from  the  steamer  four 
months  before.  Lost  in  the  mist,  the  summit  of  the 
island  towered  over  Bottom  to  the  northward. 

Here  was  a  town  walled  in  by  Nature.  The  cleft 
into  which  the  path  was  built  ended  in  a  small  ravine 
that  broke  into  the  level  plain  of  the  Bottom  and  it 
was  across  this  ravine  that  Freddie  Simmons  pointed 
out  the  ultimate  anchorage  of  the  Yakaboo  and  the 
asylum  of  her  skipper.  Our  procession  started  again — 
we  stopped  once  or  twice  to  meet  a  Simmons  or  a 
Hassel — to  make  a  starboard  tack  along  the  western 
side  of  the  ravine,  a  short  tack  to  port,  and  we  put  the 
canoe  down  on  the  after  deck — I  should  say  the  back 
porch — of  a  cool  airy  house  where  we  were  to  keep  in 
the  shade  for  a  matter  of  ten  days. 

Here  then  was  the  end  of  my  cruise  in  the  Lesser 
Antilles.  I  had  swung  through  the  arc  from  Grenada 
to  Saba  and  in  the  doing  of  it  had  sailed  some  six  hun- 
dred miles.  My  destination  was  the  Virgins  and  their 
nearest  island  lay   a   hundred   and  ten  miles   away. 


ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

"Oh!"  I  thought,  as  I  looked  down  at  the  canoe,  "if  I 
could  only  be  sure  that  I  could  make  you  stay  absolutely 
tight  and  be  reasonably  sure  of  the  wind,  I  would  not 
hesitate  to  make  the  run  in  you."  Even  if  I  did  get 
her  tight  and  encountered  a  calm  I  knew  that  I  would 
have  little  chance  of  withstanding  the  heat.  Mrs.  Rob- 
ertson had  come  out  to  welcome  me  and  I  heard  her 
step  behind  me.  She  had  guessed  my  thoughts  for  as  I 
turned  she  said,  "You  had  better  not  think  of  it."  At 
that  Freddie  put  in  his  oar.  uBe  content,  my  boy;  the 
boat  could  do  it,  but  one  day  of  no  wind  at  this  time  of 
the  year  would  finish  you  and  you  don't  want  to  be 
found  a  babbling  idiot  with  the  gulls  waiting  to  pick 
out  your  eyes." 

Sense  was  fighting  desperately  with  the  spirit  of  ad- 
venture but  at  last  sense  won  out — perhaps  through 
some  secret  understanding  with  cowardice. 

"Yes,  I  believe  you're  right — I'll  let  some  other 
damn  fool  try  it  if  he  likes,"  and  that  ended  the  matter. 

It  is  in  the  evenings  that  one  comes  to  know  the  peo- 
ple of  Saba.  They  go  quietly  about  their  business  dur- 
ing the  hours  of  daylight  and  then,  after  supper,  for 
they  always  eat  in  their  own  homes,  they  meet  some 
place — it  was  at  Mrs.  Robertson's  that  first  night — to 
thresh  out  the  small  happenings  of  the  day.  News 
from  the  outside  world  may  have  come  by  sloop  or 
schooner  from  St.  Kitts  or  Curasao.  Then  when  the 
gossip  begins  to  lag,  a  fiddle  will  mysteriously  appear 
and  an  accordion  will  be  dragged  from  under  a  chair 
while  the  room  is  cleared  for  the  "Marengo"  or  a 
paseo  from  Trinidad. 

I  could  have  no  better  chance  to  observe  the  "rosy 


«»                 * 

* 

■   J 

m!i§:: 

*->     ,~»ir,~-ij) 

THE      DIKES      OF   BOTTOM    TOWN. 


A    COZY    SABA    HOME. 


SABA  825 

cheeks  of  Saba,"  and  to  me  the  delight  of  the  evening 
was  to  be  once  more  among  people  who  lacked  that 
apathetic  drift  of  the  West  Indies  which  seems  to  hold 
them  in  perpetual  stagnation.  The  women  danced  to- 
gether for  the  most  part  to  make  up  for  the  lack  of 
men.  From  the  very  first,  these  people  have  been  sea- 
faring and  the  few  men  on  the  island  are  those  crippled 
by  rheumatism  or  too  old  to  go  to  sea.  You  will  find 
Saba  men  all  over  the  West  Indies,  captains  and  mates 
and  crews  of  small  trading  schooners  in  which  they  are 
part  owners  or  shareholders.  They  have  learned  the 
trick  of  spending  less  than  they  earn. 

Once  in  a  conversation  with  the  port  officer  of  Maya- 
guez,  at  the  mention  of  Saba  men,  he  told  me  that  their 
shore  spree  consisted  in  walking  to  the  playa  where 
they  would  indulge  in  ice  cream  and  Porto  Rican  cigars. 
On  one  occasion  a  Saba  foremast  hand  sought  his  ad- 
vice in  regard  to  investing  money  in  a  certain  coconut 
plantation  in  Porto  Rico.  That  they  are  good  sailor- 
men  does  not  rest  on  mere  fanciful  sentimentalism  for 
they  have  been  brought  up  to  it  from  their  very  boy- 
hood. 

In  a  little  house,  on  the  north  side  of  the  ravine 
which  the  Yakaboo  had  doubled  in  the  forenoon,  was 
a  nautical  school  provided  by  a  wise  government.  Here 
Freddie  Simmons  teaches  embryo  sailor-men,  while  still 
in  their  knee  trousers,  the  use  of  the  sextant  and  chron- 
ometer and  the  mathematics  that  go  therewith. 

To  me,  Saba  is  a  memory  of  living  in  a  bowl  over 
which  the  sun  swung  in  a  shortened  arc.  Here  in  Bot- 
tom Town  the  day  was  clipped  by  a  lengthy  dawn  and 
a  twilight.    As  the  sun  neared  the  rim  to  the  westward, 


326  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

I  used  to  stroll  to  the  "gap"  at  the  Ladder  Landing 
to  enjoy  the  cool  of  the  late  afternoon  and  watch  the 
"evening  set"  from  the  shadows  of  the  rocks.  Behind 
me  was  twilight;  on  the  rocks  below  and  on  the  Carib- 
bean before  me  was  yet  late  afternoon. 

Here  was  a  place  for  a  dream  and  a  pipe  of  tobacco. 
I  used  to  wonder  how  near  Columbus  had  passed  on  his 
way  to  Hispaniola.  Why  did  he  give  her  the  name  of 
Saba?  Was  it  from  the  Queen  of  Sheba  or  St.  Sabar? 
And  then  when  the  sun  had  finally  gone  down  behind 
his  cloud  fringe  and  the  short  twilight  had  been  swept 
out  by  night,  I  would  turn  back  into  the  dark  bowl 
with  its  spots  of  square  yellow  lights  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  Saba  people.  The  stars  seemed  close  here 
as  though  we  had  been  pushed  up  to  them  from  the 
earth.  Later  the  moon  would  appear  ghost-like  over 
the  southern  rim  and  float  through  the  night  to  the 
other  side. 

One  morning  Captain  Ben's  schooner  was  reported 
under  the  lee  of  the  island  and  that  afternoon  we  car- 
ried the  Yakaboo  down  the  Ladder  and  put  her  aboard. 
She  had  gone  across  Saba.  I  made  my  last  round  of 
good-byes  in  Bottom  Town  and  then  scrambled  down 
the  Ladder  in  the  hot  afternoon  sun.  In  half  an  hour 
a  lazy  breeze  pushed  us  out  into  the  Caribbean.  Saba 
stood  up  bold  and  green  in  the  strong  light,  her  outline 
distinct  with  no  cloud  cap.  Little  by  little  the  shadows 
in  the  rocks  at  her  feet  began  to  assert  themselves,  blue- 
black,  while  her  green  foliage  became  a  cloth  and  lost 
its  brilliancy,  blue-green  it  was — there  was  distance  be- 
tween us  and  the  snug  island.  When  the  sun  went  down 
she  was  a  grey-blue  hump  between  sea  and  sky. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE'S   CHANNEL  AND "YAKABOO" 


WE  awoke  with  the  Virgins  dead  ahead.  We 
were  approaching  them  as  Columbus  had — 
from  the  eastward.  His  course  must  have  been  more 
westerly  than  ours,  but  had  he  seen  them  first  in  the 
morning  light  as  I  did  the  effect  must  have  been  very 
nearly  the  same — a  line  of  innumerable  islets  that 
seemed  to  bar  our  way.  Herrera  says,  "Holding  on 
their  course,  they  saw  many  islands  close  together,  that 
they  seemed  not  to  be  numbered,  the  largest  of  which 
he  called  St.  Ursula  (Tortola)  and  the  rest  the  Eleven 
Thousand  Virgins,  and  then  came  up  with  another  great 
one  called  Borriquen  (the  name  the  Indians  gave  it), 
but  he  gave  it  the  name  of  St.  John  the  Baptist,  it  is 
now  called  St.  Juan  de  Puerto  Rico."  The  largest 
island  to  windward  he  named  Virgin  Gorda — the  Great 
Virgin. 

I  spread  my  chart  of  the  Virgins  on  the  top  of  the 
cabin  and  tried  to  pick  out  the  southern  chain  of  islands 
that  with  Tortola  and  St.  John's  form  Sir  Francis 
Drake's  Channel.  On  the  chart  were  various  notes  in 
pencil  which  I  had  gathered  on  my  way  up  the  Lesser 
Antilles.  On  the  lower  end  of  Virgin  Gorda,  or  Penis- 
ton  as  it  is  called,  a  corruption  of  Spanish  Town,  I 
should  find  the  ruins  of  an  old  Spanish  copper  mine  and 

327 


828  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

here  was  that  remarkable  strewing  of  monoliths  that, 
as  I  brought  them  close  up  with  my  glasses,  looked  for 
all  the  world  like  a  ruined  city,  more  so  even  than 
St.  Pierre — and  was  called  Fallen  Jerusalem. 

Next  in  line  came  Ginger  with  a  small  dead  sea  on 
it,  Cooper  and  Salt  Islands  where  the  wreck  of  the 
Rhone  might  be  seen  through  the  clear  waters  if  there 
were  not  too  much  breeze.  Directly  on  our  course 
through  the  Salt  Island  passage  was  a  little  cay  marked 
Dead  Chest  and  called  Duchess  by  the  natives.  Com- 
pleting the  chain  were  Peter,  and  Norman,  which  might 
have  been  the  Treasure  Island  of  Stevenson.  It  was 
these  names,  Ginger,  Cooper,  Dead  Chest,  Peter,  and 
Norman's  that  awoke  the  enthusiasm  of  Kingsley  and 
from  the  suggestion  of  this  Dead  Chest,  Stevenson 
wrote  his  famous,  "Fifteen  men  on  the  Dead  Man's 
chest,  Yo-ho-ho,  and  a  bottle  of  rum!" 

It  was  Thursday,  June  22nd,  the  Coronation  Day 
of  George  Fifth  and  Queen  Mary  when  we  dropped 
anchor  in  the  pretty  harbour  of  Road  Town  in  Tor- 
tola.  How  ancient  will  it  all  sound  should  some  one 
read  this  line  a  hundred  years  from  now!  I  put  on 
respectable  dress,  for  I  had  with  me  my  trunk  which 
had  followed  by  intermittent  voyages  in  sloops,  schoon- 
ers and  coasting  steamers,  and  from  its  hold  I  pulled 
out  my  shore  clothes  like  a  robin  pulling  worms  of  a 
dewy  morning.  Shaved  and  arrayed,  I  was  taken  to 
meet  the  Commissioner,  Leslie  Jarvis,  who,  like  Whit- 
field Smith,  deserves  better  than  he  has  received. 

That  night  as  I  smoked  a  parting  cigarette  with  the 
Commissioner  on  the  verandah  of  Government  House 
and  feasted  my  eyes  on  Salt  and  Cooper  and  Ginger 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE'S  CHANNEL        329 

across  the  channel  in  the  clear  starlight,  I  told  him  that 
I  should  see  -a  little  of  Sir  Francis  Drake's  Channel 
before  I  finished  my  cruise  at  St.  Thomas. 

"We  are  starting  to-morrow  in  the  Lady  Constance 
for  a  round  of  the  islands  and  you  had  better  leave 
your  canoe  and  come  with  us." 

"I'll  go  with  you  as  far  as  Virgin  Gorda  if  I  may  and 
leave  you  there."  And  so  was  my  last  bit  of  cruising 
in  the  West  Indies  planned. 

The  Lady  Constance  is  a  tidy  little  native  built  sloop, 
the  best  I  had  seen  in  all  the  islands,  about  eighteen 
tons,  used  as  a  "Government  Cruiser"  to  keep  smug- 
gling within  reasonable  limits  and  as  a  means  of  con- 
veyance for  the  use  of  the  Commissioner  on  his  tours 
of  inspection.  She  is  also  used  for  carrying  mail  to 
St.  Thomas,  a  run  of  about  twenty-seven  miles. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  the  commissioner,  as  I  was 
half  way  down  the  steps,  "we  take  the  two  ministers 
with  us — you  won't  mind  that?" 

"How  can  I?"  I  answered.  "It's  the  Government's 
party  and  I  suppose  they  are  quite  harmless." 

"Quite,"  came  from  the  dark  shadows  of  the  veran- 
dah. 

In  the  morning,  at  a  reasonable  time,  when  every- 
body had  enjoyed  his  breakfast  and  settled  it  with  a 
pipe,  we  got  aboard.  The  Commissioner  was  accom- 
panied by  all  the  accoutrements  of  an  expedition,  guns, 
rods,  a  leather  case  with  the  official  helmet  within,  and 
most  important  of  all,  innumerable  gallons  of  pine- 
apple syrup,  baskets  of  buns  and  boxes  of  aluminum 
coronation  medals  for  each  deserving  school  child  in 
all  the  British  Virgins.    The  Yakaboo  we  put  aboard 


330  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

forward  of  the  cabin  trunk — the  ministers  brought 
with  them  their  nightgowns  and  a  pleasant  air  of 
sanctity. 

Somewhere  there  lurks  in  my  mind  a  notion  to  the 
effect  that  professional  men  of  religion  are  among  sail- 
ors personae  non  gratae  at  sea.  A  thing  may  in  itself 
be  quite  harmless  and  yet  may  bring  down  disaster  to 
those  about  it.  Perhaps  it  is  just  a  whim  of  the  Lord 
to  test  his  self-proclaimed  lieutenants  when  they  venture 
into  the  open.  There  seems  always  to  be  trouble  at  sea 
when  a  minister  is  aboard.  The  harm  we  received  was 
trifling  but  it  was  a  warning.  The  breeze  was  fresh 
when  we  started  and  the  Lady  Constance  had  already 
bowed  once  or  twice  to  the  seas  when  we  close-hauled 
her  for  the  beat  up  the  channel.  Suddenly  a  wave 
boarded  us  and  with  an  impish  fit  gathered  the  little 
deck  galley  in  its  embrace  and  with  a  hiss  and  a  cloud 
of  briny  steam  carried  the  box  with  its  coal-pot  and 
cooking  dinner  and  swept  the  whole  of  it  into  the  sea. 
I  looked  at  the  Commissioner  and  we  both  looked  at 
the  parsons.  There  was  a  warning  in  this.  Titley, 
the  big  coloured  skipper,  felt  it  too  and  from  that  time 
our  sailing  was  done  with  great  care.  So  much  for 
superstition,  it  seems  to  grow  on  me  the  more  I  have 
to  do  with  the  sea. 

The  channel  was  full  of  fish,  Jarvis  had  told  me,  and 
with  our  towbait  we  would  take  at  least  one  fish  on 
each  tack.  We  made  a  good  many  tacks  and  got  one 
small  barracudda.  Of  course  we  knew  where  the 
trouble  lay.  We  spent  the  night  under  East  End  where 
in  the  morning  the  Commissioner  landed  and  put  an 
official  touch  to  the  depositing  of  syrup  and  buns  in 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE'S  CHANNEL        331 

sundry  little  dark  interiors  and  gave  out  medals  for  out- 
ward adornment.  Thus  in  the  outermost  capillaries  of 
the  United  Kingdom  was  the  fact  of  the  coronation 
brought  home,  and,  most  truly  is  the  stomach  of  the 
native  the  beginning  and  end,  the  home  and  the  seat 
of  all  being.  Then  we  slipped  across  to  Virgin  Gorda 
and  a  day  later  were  in  Gorda  Sound,  a  perfect  har- 
bour, large  enough,  some  say,  to  hold  the  entire  British 
Navy. 

It  was  from  Gorda  Sound  that  I  began  my  little 
jaunt  about  the  Virgins.  I  had  been  looking  forward 
to  sailing  about  in  the  Drake  Channel,  for  in  many 
ways  it  is  ideal  canoe  water.  Here  is  an  inland  sea 
with  a  protected  beach  at  every  hand,  blow  high  or 
low.  Columbus  may  have  been  far  off  when  he  named 
them  the  "Eleven  Thousand,"  but  as  I  sit  here  and 
glance  at  the  chart  I  can  count  fifty  islands  with  no 
difficulty,  all  in  range  of  forty  miles. 

The  Virgins  are  mountainous  but  much  lower  than 
the  Lesser  Antilles  and  while  they  are  volcanic  in 
origin  they  do  not  show  it  in  outline  and  must  be  of  a 
much  older  formation  than  the  lower  islands.  They 
are  the  tail  end  of  the  range  which  forms  Cuba,  San 
Domingo,  and  Porto  Rico. 

I  bade  good-bye  to  the  Lady  Constance  one  morn- 
ing, and  sailed  out  before  her  through  the  narrow  pass 
by  Mosquito  Island,  while  they  took  the  larger  opening 
for  low  Anegada,  which  we  could  not  see,  twelve  miles 
to  the  northeast.  I  hauled  up  along  the  shores  of 
Virgin  Gorda  and  made  for  West  Bay.  What  a  con- 
trast was  this  sailing  to  our  travelling  in  the  lower 
islands.    Instead  of  the  large  capping  seas  of  the  trades 


ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

here  was  an  even  floor  merely  ruffled  by  a  tidy  breeze. 
For  a  change  it  was  delightful,  but  too  much  of  it  might 
prove  tiresome  and  in  the  end  we  would  probably  be 
seeking  open  water  again.  I  was  soon  in  the  bay  and 
running  ashore  at  the  western  end  I  dragged  the  Yaka- 
boo  across  the  hot  sands  and  left  her  under  the  shade 
of  the  thick  sea  grapes  that  form  a  green  backing  to 
the  yellow  beach.  There  is  no  town  on  Virgin  Gorda, 
merely  clusters  of  native  huts  that  might  be  called  set- 
tlements, the  two  larger  having  small  school  houses 
which  are  also  used  as  churches. 

The  life  in  these  small  outer  cays  is  of  a  very  simple 
nature.  There  are  no  plantations  and  the  negro  lives 
in  a  sort  of  Utopian  way  by  raising  a  few  ground  pro- 
visions near  his  hut  and  when  he  wishes  to  change  his 
diet  he  goes  fishing.  To  obtain  cash  he  sends  his  fish 
and  ground  provisions  to  the  market  in  Tortola  or  St. 
Thomas  and  strange  to  say  his  most  urgent  need  of  cash 
is  for  the  buying  of  tobacco. 

Once,  during  the  hurricane  season,  it  chanced  that 
all  the  sloops  were  at  St.  Thomas  when  Virgin  Gorda 
found  that  it  had  run  out  of  tobacco.  The  sloops  had 
been  gone  for  a  week  and  were  due  to  return  when  sus- 
picious weather  set  in  and  no  one  dared  leave  port  even 
for  the  shortest  run.  What  with  the  hand  to  mouth 
existence  these  people  lead  and  the  small  stock  in  the 
shops,  there  is  never  more  than  a  week's  supply  of 
tobacco  on  Virgin  Gorda  and  that  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  the  negroes  here  are  inordinate  smokers.  The 
first  day  after  the  tobacco  had  given  out  was  lived 
through  with  no  great  difficulty.  On  the  second,  how- 
ever, the  absence  of  the  weed  began  to  make  itself  felt. 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE'S  CHANNEL 

The  dried  leaves  of  various  bushes  were  tried  but 
with  little  success.  Dried  grass  and  small  pieces  of 
bone  were  burned  in  pipes  and  finally  those  most  hard 
pressed  took  to  pulling  the  oakum  out  of  the  seams  of 
an  old  boat  that  lay  on  the  beach  of  West  Bay.  When 
day  after  day  followed  and  the  sloops  from  St.  Thomas 
did  not  return,  the  whole  population  finally  gave  itself 
over  to  the  smoking  of  oakum  and  watching  for  the 
return  of  their  sloops.  Even  the  oakum  in  an  old 
beached  fishing  boat  will  not  furnish  smoking  material 
for  a  couple  of  hundred  natives  for  any  great  length 
of  time  and  finally  the  island  was  quite  smokeless,  a 
state  which  to  these  people  borders  close  onto  starva- 
tion. 

At  last  the  sullen  threat  of  a  hurricane  passed  off 
and  the  next  day  the  lookout  reported  white  sail-patches 
beating  up  the  channel.  When  the  sloops  beat  into 
West  Bay  late  that  afternoon,  the  whole  population  of 
Virgin  Gorda  was  waiting  for  them.  As  soon  as  the 
boats  were  beached  the  first  business  of  the  island  was 
to  enjoy  a  good  smoke.  To  have  been  there  with  a 
camera  and  to  have  caught  the  two  hundred  columns 
of  bluish  smoke  drifting  aslant  in  the  light  easterly 
breeze ! 

In  the  morning  I  was  again  on  the  summer  sea  of  the 
channel.  We  had  cleared  Virgin  Gorda  and  were  laz- 
ing along  toward  Ginger  when  I  saw  the  mottled  fin 
of  a  huge  devil  fish  directly  on  our  course.  I  was  in 
no  mind  to  dispute  his  way — not  being  familiar  with 
the  disposition  of  these  large  rays — -so  I  hauled  up  a 
bit  and  let  him  pass  a  hundred  feet  or  so  to  leeward. 
I  stood  up  and  watched  him  as  he  went  by  and  swore 


334  [ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

that  some  day  I  would  harpoon  just  such  a  fellow  as 
that  from  a  whaleboat  and  take  photographs  of  the 
doing.  Just  now  I  was  leaving  him  alone.  His  fin, 
mottled  brown  and  black  like  the  rest  of  his  upper 
surface,  stood  nearly  three  feet  high  and  I  judged  his 
size  to  be  about  eighteen  feet  across  from  tip  to  tip. 

For  my  nooning,  I  went  ashore  on  a  little  beach  on 
Cooper  where  I  built  a  fire  in  the  shade  of  beach 
growths.  The  sun,  it  seemed,  did  not  have  the  deadly 
spite  in  its  rays  as  in  the  lower  islands  but  this  may 
have  been  wholly  surmise  on  my  part.  It  was  a  great 
joy  to  be  able  to  do  a  bit  of  beach  work — that  is  to 
live  more  on  the  beaches  than  I  had  been  doing  in  the 
Windward  and  Leeward  islands.  I  sat  for  a  while 
under  the  small  trees  where  the  cool  wind  seeped 
through  the  shade  and  set  myself  to  a  real  sailor's  job 
of  a  bit  of  needlework  on  the  mainsail  where  a  batten 
had  worn  through  its  pocket. 

There  is  a  peculiar  freshness  about  these  small  cays 
that  seems  to  do  its  utmost  to  belie  any  suspicion  of  a 
past.  The  beaches  are  shining,  the  sand  and  pebbles 
look  new  and  in  a  sense  perhaps  they  are,  for  one  does 
not  find  here  the  thin  slime  on  the  rocks  that  is  an  ac- 
companiment of  long  years  of  near-by  civilisation. 
Man  befouls.  The  vegetation  is  for  the  most  part 
new,  for  excepting  an  aged  silk  cotton  tree,  there  are 
no  growths  of  great  age.  The  palms  grow  for  a  gen- 
eration or  two  and  pass  away.  The  small  woody 
growths  of  coarse  grain  and  spongy  fiber  quickly  bleach 
out  and  rot  away  upon  death.  They  almost  seem  to 
evaporate  into  the  air.  Here  are  places  of  quickly 
passing  generations  that  suggest  eternal  youth.    Were 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE'S  CHANNEL        335 

our  impressions  of  these  places  not  biased  by  brilliantly 
coloured  pictures  which  we  have  seen  in  our  youth  of 
pirates  and  adventurers  of  a  former  age  portrayed  on 
brilliant  white  beaches  with  a  line  of  azure  sea  and  a 
touch  of  fresh  green,  we  would  swear  that  they  were 
no  older  than  a  generation.  But  all  these  beaches  of 
perpetual  youth  knew  the  rough-booted  pirates  of  cen- 
turies ago  and  the  Indians  before  them.  Here  in  the 
channel  between  these  outer  cays  and  Tortola,  three 
centuries  ago,  convoys  of  deeply  laden  merchant  ships 
under  clouds  of  bellying  squaresails  used  to  collect  like 
strange  seafowl  to  sail  in  the  common  strength  of  their 
own  guns  and  a  frigate  or  two  for  the  European  con- 
tinent. Drake  and  Morgan  and  Martin  Frobisher, 
whom  we  think  only  as  of  the  Arctic,  and  the  Admiral 
William  Penn  knew  these  places  as  we  know  the  en- 
virons of  our  own  homes. 

When  I  had  finished  my  sewing  and  had  washed  my 
dishes  I  shoved  off  again  and  in  a  few  minutes — what 
a  toy  cruise ! — I  was  ashore  on  the  beach  of  Salt  island 
where  a  few  huts  flocked  together  under  the  coco-palms. 
Here  I  found  a  native  by  the  name  of  William  Penn. 
I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  heard  of  the  old  Admiral. 
Penn,  he  told  me,  was  an  old  name  in  these  islands, 
there  having  been  many  Williams.  In  all  probability 
the  name  was  first  assumed  by  the  slaves  in  the  old  days 
and  then  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation. 

It  was  here,  in  1867,  that  the  Royal  Mail  Steamer 
Rhone  was  wrecked  in  a  hurricane.  William  Penn 
showed  me  in  one  of  the  huts  a  gilded  mirror  which 
had  been  "dove  up"  and  he  told  me  that  the  natives 
were  still  diving-up  various  articles  from  the  wreck- 


336  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

age.  We  put  off  in  our  canoes  and  rowed  around  to  the 
western  shore  where  the  steamer  lies  in  some  forty  feet 
of  water.  She  must  have  been  broken  up  on  the  rocks 
during  the  first  onslaught  of  the  hurricane  and  then 
blown  out  to  where  she  now  lies  about  two  hundred 
yards  from  shore.  The  conditions  were  not  particu- 
larly good,  yet  we  could  see  what  was  left  of  her  in 
large  masses  of  wreckage  literally  strewn  about  on  the 
ocean  floor. 

Then  I  hoisted  sail  again  and  was  off  across  the 
channel  to  Dead  Man's  Chest  where  I  would  camp  for 
the  night.  The  surf  was  too  high,  however,  and  I 
had  to  content  myself  with  a  photograph  and  to  sail 
on  to  Peter  where  I  came  ashore  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  on  a  sandy  turtle  beach.  A  native  came  out  of 
the  bush  and  without  any  word  on  my  part  immediately 
turned  to  and  built  my  evening  fire.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  the  simple  coast  African  in  him — he  freely  ad- 
mitted that  it  was  curiosity  that  brought  him  to  see  me 
and  the  canoe  and  in  return  for  a  civil  word  he  was  only 
too  glad  to  do  what  service  he  could.  He  showed  the 
same  pride  of  his  village  (these  negroes  all  have  a 
strong  appreciation  of  the  picturesque)  that  I  found 
all  along  the  lee  coasts  and  he  begged  that  I  visit  the 
snug  little  bay  where  he  lived,  when  I  set  sail  in  the 
morning. 

The  night  promised  clear  with  a  small  new  moon 
crescent — perfect  for  sleeping  without  cover.  I  had 
no  sooner  settled  myself  down  in  my  tiny  habitation 
than  the  wind  began  to  drop  and  thousands  of  mosqui- 
toes came  out  of  the  bush  on  a  rampage.  Instead  of 
pitching  my  tent  on  the  ground  I  ran  the  peak  up  on 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE'S  CHANNEL        337 

the  mainmast  which  I  stepped  in  the  mizzen  tube.  The 
middle  after-guy  I  ran  to  the  foot  of  the  mizzen  mast 
which  was  now  in  the  mainmast  tube.  The  sides  I 
pegged  in  the  sand  under  the  bilges  of  the  canoe  and  in 
this  way  I  had  a  roomy  canoe  tent  which  gave  access 
to  the  forward  compartment  in  case  of  rain. 

After  I  had  rigged  the  tent  I  beat  the  air  inside  with 
a  towel  so  that  when  I  fastened  down  the  mosquito 
bar  there  was  no  one  inside  but  myself.  I  found,  how- 
ever, that  I  was  plenty  of  company.  While  the  night 
air  outside  was  cool  enough  I  soon  found  that  the  heat 
from  my  body  accumulated  in  the  tent  till  I  lay  on  my 
blankets  in  a  bath  of  perspiration.  A  loose  flap  in  the 
top  of  the  tent  would  have  taken  off  this  warm  air  as 
in  a  tepee.  Had  there  been  one  mosquito  to  bother 
me  sleep  would  have  been  impossible.  At  last  a  gentle 
night  breeze  sprang  up,  I  wiped  my  body  dry,  and 
dropped  off  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  was  July  first,  the  last  of  the  cruise  of 
the  Yakaboo,  and  almost  of  the  skipper.  I  was  up  with 
the  sun — many  evil  days  begin  just  that  way — and  off 
the  beach  after  a  hasty  breakfast.  My  destination  was 
Norman  Island — I  would  come  back  to  Peter  again — 
where  there  were  caves  in  which  treasure  had  actually 
been  found  and  where  there  was  a  tree  with  certain 
cabalistic  marks  which  were  supposed  to  indicate  the 
presence  of  buried  treasure.  I  cleared  the  end  of  the 
island  and  hauled  up  for  Norman,  passing  close  to 
Pelican  Cay.  Norman  is  a  long  narrow  island  with  an 
arm  that  runs  westward  from  its  northern  shore,  form- 
ing a  deep  harbour  which  gives  excellent  protection 
from  all  quarters  but  northeast. 


338  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

In  a  rocky  wall  on  the  extreme  western  end  of  the 
island  where  the  harbour  opens  out  to  the  channel  are 
two  caves  which  can  be  easily  seen  when  sailing  through 
the  Flanagan  passage  into  Sir  Francis  Drake's  Channel. 
These  caves  are  the  ordinary  deep  hollows  one  com- 
monly finds  in  volcanic  rock  formation  close  to  the 
sea  and  were  for  years  unsuspected  of  holding  hidden 
treasure.  They  say  that  a  certain  black  merchant  of  St. 
Thomas,  who  had  literally  become  rich  over  night, 
found  his  money  in  the  shape  of  Spanish  doubloons 
from  an  iron  chest  which  he  dug  up  in  the  far  end  of 
one  of  the  caves.  The  man  had  bought  Norman,  had 
spent  some  time  there  and  for  no  apparent  reason  had 
suddenly  become  rich.  One  day  a  curious  fisherman 
found  the  empty  chest  by  the  freshly  dug  hole  in  the 
cave  and  there  were  even  a  few  telltale  coins  that  had 
rolled  out  of  range  of  the  lantern  of  the  man  who 
dug  out  the  treasure.  And  there  must  have  been  an- 
other place  for  one  day  a  small  schooner  came  down 
from  the  north  and  entered  at  the  port  of  Road  Town. 
She  picked  up  a  native  from  Salt  island  and  one  night 
she  ran  down  to  Norman's.  The  next  morning  she  put 
the  native  ashore  on  his  own  island  and  sailed  for  parts 
unknown — as  to  what  happened  on  Norman  the  native, 
it  seems,  was  strangely  silent.  There's  the  whole  of  the 
tale  except  what's  known  by  the  crew  of  the  schooner. 

As  I  sailed  into  the  harbour,  I  saw  a  sandy  beach 
at  the  far  end  where  a  small  wooden  jetty  stood  out 
in  the  calm  water.  Fringing  the  beach  was  a  row  of 
small  cocopalms,  behind  which  the  island  bowled  up 
into  a  sort  of  amphitheater  of  scrubby  hillside.  What 
a  place  for  a  pirate's  nest!    There  is  scant  printed  his- 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE'S  CHANNEL        339 

tory  of  Norman  and  what  is  written  is  for  the  most  part 
in  some  such  records  as  led  the  schooner  to  the  island. 
I  rowed  in  to  the  beach,  the  hill  to  the  eastward  cutting 
off  all  moving  air  so  that  a  calm  of  deathly  stillness 
held  the  head  of  the  bay  in  a  state  of  quivering  heat 
waves.  The  low  burr  of  wind  in  the  upper  air  out- 
voiced whatever  sound  might  have  come  from  the  surf 
on  the  windward  side  of  the  island. 

There  was  something  peculiarly  uncanny  about  the 
place  which  was  all  the  more  accentuated  by  the  lonely 
jetty  and  a  pair  of  pelicans  that  launched  forth  in  turn 
from  their  perch  on  the  gallows-like  frame  at  its  end, 
to  float  in  large  circles  over  the  clear  sandy-floored 
harbour,  remounting  again  in  lazy  soft-pinioned  flaps. 
They  flew  off  as  I  tied  up  to  the  jetty  but  completed 
their  circle  as  I  stepped  ashore  and  sat  eyeing  the 
Yakaboo  as  if  detailed  there  on  sentry  duty.  The  heat 
was  intolerable  and  if  I  were  to  camp  on  Norman  I 
should  have  to  find  a  cooler  spot  than  this. 

First,  however,  I  would  hunt  the  pirate  tree,  but  I 
had  not  gone  far  into  the  bush  before  I  began  to  feel 
faint  and  sick.  The  bush  was  close  but  shaded  and 
as  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  jetty  and  came  out  again 
into  the  full  glare  of  the  beach  the  heat  came  upon 
me  like  a  blow.  I  needed  water  and  I  knew  where 
I  could  get  it,  luke-warm,  in  my  can  in  the  after  com- 
partment of  the  canoe.  I  tried  to  stoop  down  from 
the  jetty  but  nearly  fell  off  so  I  followed  the  safer  plan 
of  lying  down  on  the  burning  boards  and  reaching  into 
the  compartment  with  my  arms  and  head  hanging  over. 

The  hatch  came  off  easily  enough  and  with  it  rose 
the  hot  damp  odour  of  the  heated  compartment  mixed 


340  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

with  the  smell  of  varnish.  I  took  out  a  bag  or  two  and 
found  them  covered  with  a  sticky  fluid.  Then  I  dis- 
covered my  varnish  can  lying  on  its  side  with  its  cork 
blown  out,  spewing  its  contents  over  all  my  bags. 
When  I  lifted  my  water-can  it  came  up  with  heartsink- 
ing  lightness.  I  took  it  up  on  the  jetty  and  sat  up  to 
examine  it.  There  in  the  bottom  was  a  tiny  rust  hole 
where  the  water  had  run  out.  Then  I  lay  down  again 
and  dabbled  my  fingers  in  half  an  inch  of  water  and 
varnish  in  the  bottom  of  the  compartment.  I  had  sense 
enough  to  know  that  I  was  pretty  well  gone  by  this 
time  and  I  went  ashore  where  I  lay  for  some  time  under 
the  shade  of  the  young  cocopalms. 

If  I  could  only  get  one  of  those  water-nuts  I  should 
feel  much  better  and  although  the  trees  were  young 
and  the  nuts  hung  low  they  were  still  nearly  three  feet 
above  my  reach.  Perhaps  I  could  shoot  them  down,  so 
I  went  back  to  the  canoe  and  got  the  rifle  which  so  far 
had  been  of  little  use  to  me.  The  will  of  the  good  Lord 
was  with  me  for  I  found  that  I  could  almost  touch  the 
nuts  with  the  muzzle  of  my  rifle.  By  resting  the  barrel 
upward  along  the  trunk  of  the  tree  I  could  poke  the 
muzzle  within  a  few  inches  of  the  stems.  Any  one 
could  have  made  the  shot,  but  I  missed  because  I  for- 
got that  the  sight  was  raised  a  good  half  inch  from  the 
center  of  the  bore.  It  took  me  some  time  to  reason 
this  out  and  I  had  to  sit  down  for  a  while  to  recover 
from  the  shock  of  the  recoil.  Then  the  idea  came  to 
me.  I  aimed  the  rifle  this  time  with  its  axis  in  line 
with  the  stem  and  pulled  the  trigger.  Down  came  the 
nut  and  I  blew  off  its  head  and  drank  its  cool  liquid.  In 
like  manner  I  shot  another  coconut. 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE'S  CHANNEL         341 

Stalking  the  fruit  of  a  cocopalm  may  sound  like  the 
tamest  of  sport,  but  no  hunting  ever  gave  me  keener 
satisfaction  than  shooting  these  two  nuts  in  the  neck. 
The  milk  was  cool  and  refreshing  and  I  believe  it 
pulled  me  out  of  as  tight  a  corner  as  I  have  ever  been 
in  alone.  There  was  no  one  living  on  the  island.  The 
coming  on  of  nausea  and  the  feeling  that  I  did  not 
exactly  care  what  happened  was  hideous  to  my  better 
sense  and  I  felt  that  at  all  costs  I  must  make  an  effort 
to  refresh  myself  and  then  leave  the  island  as  soon  as 
possible.  By  sheer  luck  of  supercaution  I  got  into  the 
canoe  and  untied  the  painter  (I  found  it  trailing  in  the 
water  when  I  got  out  in  the  channel  later)  and  then 
in  one  last  effort  of  fostered  strength  I  rowed  out  of 
the  cove  into  the  breeze  where  I  quietly  pulled  in  my 
oars  and  lay  down. 

A  little  time  later  the  quick  roll  of  the  canoe  roused 
me  and  I  found  that  I  was  clear  of  Norman  and  close 
upon  Flanagan  Island.  The  wind  was  cool  and  I 
made  sail  for  Tortola.  I  was  still  very  faint  but  I 
had  held  that  mainsheet  for  so  many  miles  that  even 
half-insensible  I  could  sail  the  Yakaboo  into  Road  Har- 
bour— perhaps  she  did  a  little  more  than  her  half  of 
the  sailing.  For  three  days  I  was  taken  care  of  at 
Government  House  and  then  feeling  perfectly  well  I 
prepared  to  sail  for  St.  Thomas.  The  anxious  Com- 
nissioner  would  not  hear  of  this  and  the  doctor  for- 
)ade  me  to  go  into  the  sun  again,  warning  me  to  take 
:he  next  steamer  for  New  York. 

On  the  afternoon  of  July  Fourth  I  was  bundled 
iboard  the  Lady  Constance,  together  with  the  Yaka- 


342  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

boo,  and  in  the  evening  we  sailed  into  the  Danish  port 
of  Charlotte  Amalia. 

So  here  ends  the  cruise  of  the  Yakaboo  after  nearly 
six  months  of  wanderings  in  the  out-of-the-way  places 
of  that  arc  which  swings  from  Grenada  to  St.  Thomas. 
Six  months  may  seem  a  long  time  to  you  of  the  office 
who  at  the  most  can  get  a  month  of  it  in  the  woods  or 
along  shore,  but  to  me  these  months  had  been  so  full 
of  varied  interest  that  they  were  a  kaleidoscope  of 
mental  pictures  and  impressions,  some  of  them  sur- 
prisingly unreal,  that  I  had  gone  through  in  weeks. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  heat  I  should  have  kept  on  and 
cruised  along  Porto  Rico,  San  Domingo,  and  Cuba, 
crossing  the  large  channels  by  steamer  if  necessary. 

But  it  is  the  sun  which  makes  impossible  the  true  out- 
door life  in  these  islands  as  we  know  it  in  the  north. 
I  was  content  with  what  I  had  seen.  I  did  not  think 
back  with  longing  of  Norman  where  I  had  failed  to 
spend  the  days  I  had  planned,  nor  of  Diamond  Rock 
off  Martinique  where  I  had  wished  to  land,  nor  of  the 
half-French,  half-Dutch  St.  Martin's  that  was  out  of 
reach  to  windward,  nor  of  Aves,  the  center,  almost, 
from  which  the  arc  of  the  Caribbees  is  swung,  for  I 
decided,  should  the  opportunity  offer,  I  would  come 
down  here  again  in  a  boat  large  enough  to  sleep  in  off 
shore  and  in  which  I  could  escape  the  heat  of  the  day 
at  anchor  in  the  cool  spots  where  the  down  draft  of 
the  hills  strikes  the  smooth  waters  of  protected  coves. 

One  morning  the  Parima  nosed  her  way  into  the 
harbour  and  I  put  off  to  her  in  a  bumboat  with  my 
trunk  and  outfit  aboard  and  the  Yakaboo  towing  astern. 
The  trunk  and  outfit  followed  me  up  the  companionway 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE'S  CHANNEL        343 

and  after  a  talk  with  the  First  Officer  I  rowed  the 
Yakaboo  under  one  of  the  forward  booms  which  had 
swung  out  and  lowered  its  cargo  hook  like  a  spider  at 
the  end  of  its  thread.  I  slipped  the  canvas  slings  under 
the  canoe's  belly  and  waved  for  the  mate  to  "take  her 
weight."  She  hung  even  and  holding  on  to  the  hook  I 
yelled  to  the  head  and  shoulders  that  stuck  out  over  the 
rail  to  "Take  her  up  I" 

M  'Take  her  up,'  he  says,"  came  down  to  me  and  we 
began  to  rise  slowly  into  the  air.  We  were  leaving  the 
Caribbean  for  the  last  time  together  and  were  swung 
gently  up  over  the  rail  and  lowered  to  the  deck. 

The  steward  led  me  to  a  stateroom  that  I  was  to 
share  with  an  American  engineer  returning  from  Porto 
Rico.  Here  was  one  who  did  not  know  of  my  cruise 
and  I  was  glad  to  escape  a  torrent  of  questions.  He, 
the  engineer,  looked  askance  at  my  rough  clothes  and 
I  chuckled  to  myself  while  he  hung  about  the  open  door 
in  the  altogether  obvious  attempt  to  forestall  any  sly 
thieving  on  my  part.  I  don't  blame  him.  I  shaved  and 
packed  my  suitcase  with  my  shore  clothes  and  then 
hied  me  to  the  shower  bath  whence  I  emerged  an  ordi- 
nary person  of  fairly  respectable  aspect. 

Then  some  confounded  maniac  walked  along  the 
deck  clanging  a  bell  and  I  knew  that  it  was  the  call  to 
breakfast.  I  went  below  and  took  my  seat  opposite 
the  engineer  from  Porto  Rico  who  recognised  me  with 
a  start.  I  embarked  on  a  gastronomic  cruise,  making 
my  departure  from  a  steep-to  grapefruit  that  had  been 
iced  and  coming  to  a  temporary  anchorage  off  a  small 
cay  of  shredded  wheat  in  a  sea  of  milk — foods  of  a 
remote  past.     I  was  tacking  through  an  archipelago 


344  ALONE  IN  THE  CARIBBEAN 

of  bacon  and  eggs  when  I  heard  the  exhaust  of  the 
steam  winch  and  the  grind  of  the  anchor  chain  as  it 
passed  in  over  the  lip  of  the  hawse  pipe,  link  by  link. 
I  had  cleared  the  archipelago  and  was  now  in  the  open 
sea  of  my  first  cup  of  coffee  and  bound  for  a  flat-topped 
island  of  flapjacks  when  I  felt  the  throb  of  the  pro- 
peller slowly  turning  over  to  gather  the  bulk  under  us 
into  steerage  way.  Presently  the  throb  settled  down 
to  a  smooth  vibration — we  were  under  way. 

Some  one  at  my  right  had  been  murmuring,  "Please 
pass  the  sugar? — may  I  trouble  you  for  the  sugar? — I 

BEG  your  pardon  but "  and  I  woke  up  and  passed 

the  sugar  bowl.  Some  one  else  said,  "I  see  by  the 
papers — — "  I  was  back  in  civilisation  again  and  as 
far  from  the  Yakaboo  and  the  Lesser  Antilles  as  you, 
sitting  on  the  back  of  your  neck  in  a  Morris  chair. 


INDEX 


Abime,  L\  submarine  crater, 
247 

Admixture;  of  French  with 
negro,  98,  100,  198;  of 
Carib  with  negro,  116,  128, 
129;  of  Carib  with  Ara- 
wauk,  137;  of  English  with 
negro,  198;  of  Irish  with 
negro,  278,  280 

Ajoupa,  46,  150,  152 

Andrea  Doria,  296-299,  305, 
306 

Antidote  for  snake  bite,  217, 
218 

Arawauk  origin  of  Caribs, 
137,  138 

Bags.     See  Oiled  bags 
Balling.     See  Fishing 
Barber,  a  Dutch,  307-309 
Barbot,  cited  concerning  man- 

chioneel  trees,  77,  78;  Mt. 

Pelee,  217;  Redonda,  276 
Basse   Terre,    Guadeloupe, 

259-263 
Basse  Terre,  St.  Kitts,  288 
Baths,  Curative,  169,  170 
Bay  Path,  Oranjetown,  295, 

305,  306 


Beaches;  typical,  77,  140,  264, 
265,  266;  tetanus  on,  116; 
how  to  walk  on,  231 ;  un- 
suitability  for  day  camping, 
239;  cobbled  beach,  Saba, 
317;  more  habitable  in  Vir- 
gin Islands,  332-337-  See 
also  Fever  beaches.  Surf 
on.    See  Surf  running 

Bequia,  island,  101-109,  115 

Black  fin,  141 -143 

Blackfish,  1 01 -103 

Boats;  Carib  canoe,  109,  126, 
127,  140,  141 ;  catamaran, 
253;  drogher,  28;  dugouts, 
119,  157-159,  225-227, 
235 ;  Government  Cruiser, 
329 ;  schooners,  old 
Gloucester  fishermen,  201, 
289;  trading  sloops,  28, 
170,  171;  whale  boats,  48- 
52,  73 

Bottom  Town,  Saba,  320, 
322-326 

Brimstone  Hill,  290,  291 

Bulling.     See  Fishing 

Cachacrou  Head,  238-247 
Calabash;  for  carrying  water, 


345 


346 


INDEX 


131;  use  as  safe,  131,  132; 
as  shower-bath,  167;  as  a 
musical  instrument,  205, 
206 

Calms,  113-115,  255,  263-265, 
287 

Camels  on  Nevis,  286 

Cannon,  Old,  96,  291,  305, 
306 

Cannouan,  island,  100,  101 

Canoes;  Capt.  Slocum's,  23; 
Carib,  109,  126,  127,  140, 
141;  native,  157-159;  ad- 
vantage over  larger  craft, 
171,  180.  See  also  Dug- 
outs, Log 

Caribs,  Black,  115-118,  128, 
129 

Caribs,  Yellow;  nature  lore 
of  boy  in  Grenada,  3 1 ; 
houses  of,  46,  47,  150,  151 ; 
physical  characteristics  of, 
109;  admixture  with  negro, 
116,  128,  129;  camping 
with,  125-154;  industry  of, 
135;  Arawauk  origin  of, 
137,  138;  language  of,  138, 
148,  149;  custom  of  the 
"wake"  of,  144,  145;  re- 
ligion of,  145-148 

Carriacou,  island,  84-93 

Cassava;  drying,  100;  how 
prepared,   152,  153 

Castries,  1 71-174 


Catamaran,  253 

Channel  runs;  among  the 
Grenadines,  71-77,  101- 
103;  to  Saint  Lucia,  155- 
161;  to  Martinique,  179- 
184;  to  Dominica,  234-238; 
to  Guadeloupe,  256-259;  to 
Monserrat,  270-274 ;  to  Re- 
donda,  278;  to  Nevis,  282- 
285;  to  St.  Kitts,  287,  288; 
to  St.  Eustatius,  291,  292; 
to  Saba,  316-318;  among 
the  Virgin  Islands,  330-341 

Charcoal,  38 

Charts,  how  to  carry,  82,  83 

Chateau  Belaire,  119,  120, 
125 

Chocolate,  native,  47,  48,  160, 

245 
Churches;  at  Mayero,  99;  at 
Owia,    146-148;  at   Statia, 

304 
Churchill,    cited;    concerning 

Caribs,  129;  Redonda,  278 
Clothing   for   cruise,   31,    81, 

145,    146,    263,    264,    287, 

293,  294 
Coal-pot,  38,  47 
Cocoa  shop,  61 
Coconuts,  jelly;  how  to  eat, 

H7>     159,     160;    shooting, 

340>  34i 
Colours,  tropical,  27,  28,  36, 

107,  161,  162,  225,  326 


INDEX 


347 


Cooking,  manner  of;  on  coal- 
pots,  38,  47;  cassava,  152, 
153.    See  also  Cooking  out- 
fit 
Cooking  outfit,  34,  37,  38,  82 
Cooper  Island,  334,  335 
Coyembouc.    See  Calabash 
Crater;    of    Soufriere,    Saint 
Vincent,  123,  124;  of  Mt. 
Pelee,  218,  219,  220;  sub- 
marine, of  Dominica,  247; 
the  "Quille"  of  Statia,  291, 
292;  of  Saba,  320-326 
Creole,  French,  beauty  of,  in 
comparison     with     English 
admixture,  198 
Cuckoo  mayoque,  Legend  of, 

168 
Currents.     See  Tide  currents 
Customs  officers.    See  Duanes 

Dauphin,  282,  283 

Dead  Man's  Chest,  328,  336 

Deshaies,  Guadeloupe,  265- 
269 

Devil  fish,  333,  334 

Diamond  Rock;  French  Gui- 
ana, 55;  Martinique,  182, 
183.  In  the  Grenadines. 
See  Kick  'em  Jinny. 

Dikes;  in  Statia,  303;  in 
Saba,  322 

Dominica,  238-256 

Dorade.    See  Dauphin 


Drogher,  28 

Duanes,   how  to  elude,    184- 

186,    208-210,    223,    224, 

228 
Dugouts,   log,    119,    157-159, 

225-227,     235.       See    also 

Canoes,  Carib 
Duquesne  Point,  37-39 
"Dying"  native,  how  to  treat 

a,  256 

Easter  holidays  in  Fort  de 
France,  202-206 

Fer-de-lance.     See  Snakes 
Feudal  government  at  May- 

ero,  47,  98,  99 
Fever,  tropical,  how  to  avoid, 

3i 

Fever  beaches,  39,  266-269 

Fire  arms,  35,  82 

Fire-flies,  232 

Fish.  See  Black  fin;  Black- 
fish;  Dauphin;  Devil  fish; 
Fishing;  Flying  fish;  Jack- 
fish;  Million-fish;  Sharks 

Fishing;  bulling,  129;  for 
black  fin,  141-143  ;  at  night, 
244 

Flying  fish,  181 

Food;  for  cruising,  34,  47,  75, 
82,  139,  160;  native,  63, 
H3,    152,    153,    183,   240- 


348 


INDEX 


241 ;  a  Sunday  morning 
feast,  245 
Fort  de  France,  184-207 
Forts;  Fort  George,  Grenada, 
27 ;  The  Vigie,  Saint  Lucia, 
171;  Fort  Rodney,  Pigeon 
Island,  176,  177;  H.M.S. 
Diamond  Rock,  182,  183; 
Fort  St.  Louis,  Fort  de 
France,  184;  Cachacrou 
Head,  Dominica,  238,  239; 
Fort  George,  Brimstone 
Hill,  290,  291 ;  Fort  Or- 
anje,  Statia,  296-300 ;  Tom- 
menlendyk,  Statia,  311, 
312;  private,  on  Union,  96, 

97 
Frigate,  island,  93-95 
Fruits,     tropical,     117,     159, 

160,  247,  264,  265 
Fuel,  34,  38,  47,  78,  269 

Gardens,  Botanical.  Carria- 
cou,  89 

George  V,  celebration  of  cor- 
onation in  Virgin  Islands, 
328,  329-331 

Gloucester  fishermen  as 
island  traders,  201,  289 

Goyave,  Grenada,  36,  90 

Grande    Riviere   Point,    225- 

234 
Grenada,  26-41,  56,  58 
Grenadines,  39,  42-109 


Griffith,  Dr.  J.  Morgan,  301, 

304-306,  315,  318 
Gros-Islet,  Saint  Lucia,  174- 

176 
Guadeloupe,  259-269 
Gutters ;  how  used  by  natives, 

197,  198 

Hamilton,  Alexander,  285- 
286 

Heat,  tropical,  116,  263,  264; 
how  to  avoid  illness  from, 
31,  36,  220,  221,  263 

Herrera,  cited;  concerning 
Carib  language,  138;  Vir- 
gin Islands,  327 

Houses;  native,  28,  46,  93,  99, 
117,  246;  in  towns,  28, 
162,  164,  165,  188-191* 
262,  267,  303,  322;  Carib, 
46,  47,  150,  151 

Hugues,  Victor,  262-265 

Ice,  113,  170 

Ile-de-Caille,  40-74 

Illness,  how  to  avoid,  31,  36, 

220,  221,  263 
Innocent,  Joseph,  164-168 
Irishmen,  Black,  278,  280 

Jack-fish,  47 

Jarvis,    Leslie,    Commissioner 

of  Tortola,  328-331 
Josephine,  Empress,  166,  170, 


INDEX 


349 


172,   175,   176;  the  native 
who  had  seen,    173,    174; 
statue  of,  200 
Jumbies,  42,  45,  178,  242 

Kick  'Em  Jinny,  55,  70-77 
Kingstown,   Saint  Vincent, 

110113 
Krull,  Admiral,  301-304 

Labat,  Pere;  country  of,  222, 
223;  little  economies  of, 
229,  230;  cited  concerning 
chocolate,  48;  use  of  cala- 
bash, 131;  Caribs,  138;  on 
sequence  of  waves,  231; 
how  to  catch  dorade,  283 

Labour  problems,  86,  87,  95, 
96,  99.  See  also  Metayer 
system;  Paternal  system 

Lajoblesse,  45 

Land  cruise,  A,  250-255 

Language;  native,  37,  42; 
Carib,  138,  148,  149 

Layou,  Saint  Vincent,  116- 
118 

"Little  Yakaboo,"  117,  118 

Mabouya,  island,  77-84 
Madras,  how  worn,  198 
Manchioneel  trees,  77,  78,  305 
Manicou,  47 

Mansanilla  trees.  See  Man- 
chioneel trees 


Martinique,  56,  184-234 
Mascot  of  the  Yakaboo,  70, 

84,  92,  93 
Matches,  how  to  carry,  80 
Mayero,  island,  47,  98-100 
Merry-go-round,  204-206 
Metayer  system,  99 
Million-fish,  87 
Monserrat,  272-278 
Moon,    influence   of,   on   tide 

and  weather,  31,  42,  44,  72, 

92 
Moonlight;    beauty    of,    103, 

107;  St.  Pierre  by,  214-216 
Mosquitoes;  extermination  by 

million-fish  of,   87;  yellow 

fever,   177;  on  beach,  336, 

337 
Mouchicarri,     variations     of 

name,  55 
Music,  native,  48,   145,   148, 

204-206,  268 

Names  of  islands,   origin  of, 

44,  55,  56,  276,  327,  328 
Natives;  nature  lore  of,   31, 

72,  168;  curiosity  of,  32, 
37,  100,  104,  105,  109,  no, 
117,  135,  163,  241;  patois, 
37,  42;  superstitions  of,  42, 

45,  48,  56,  90-92,  100,  101, 
108,  109,  135,  178,  242; 
carelessness  at  sea  of,  43,  97, 
275;  yellow  streak  in,  43, 


350 


INDEX 


65;  easy  philosophy  of,  54, 
97;  desire  to  be  considered 
"white,"  86 ;  laziness  of,  86, 
306,  307;  respect  for  law 
of,  86,  99;  officiousness  of, 
89,  184-186,  247,  248; 
primitive  undress  of,  94; 
religion  of,  99,  146-148; 
how  to  drive  away,  100, 
1 01 ;  fondness  for  gold- 
rimmed  glasses,  1 1 1 ;  pride 
in  villages  of,  1 16,  227,  245- 
247,  336;  unwillingness  to 
serve,  1 201 25 ;  medical  lore 
of,  136;  remarkable  mem- 
ory of,  173,  174;  range  of 
conversation  of,  197,  198; 
use  of  gutters  by,  197,  198; 
industry  of  French,  199; 
games  of,  203-204;  music 
of,  48,  145,  148,  204-206, 
268 ;  how  to  treat  "dying," 
256;  apathy  of,  260,  266; 
simple  life  of,  332.  See  also 
Caribs,  Black;  Caribs,  Yel- 
low; Irishmen,  Black;  Ne- 
gro; Whalers,  etc. 
Nautical      instruments,      35, 

82 
Nautical  School,  Saba,  325 
Negro    admixture;    with 
French,  98,  100,  198,  199; 
with  Caribs,  116,  128,  129; 


with    English,     198;    with 

Irish,  278,  280. 
Nevis,  285-287 
Norman  Island,  337-341 

Oiled  bags,  34,  37,  78,  81,  83 
Oranjetown,     St.     Eustatius, 

292-315 
Outfit,  34,  35,  37,  38,  78-83 
Owia  Bay,  Saint  Vincent,  132, 

146-148 

Paternal  system,  88 

Pelee,  Mt. ;  eruption  of,  127, 

210-213;    ascent    of,    216- 

220;  beauty  of,  224,  225, 

229. 
Peter  Island,  336,  337 
Petit  Martinique,  56 
Phosphate  of  alumina  on  Re- 

donda,  278 
Photographic    outfit,    34,    35, 

82 
Photography,  112,  113,  196 
Pigeon  Island,  176-179 
Pirates,  28,  328,  335-338 
Pitons,  The,  161 
Point  Espagnol,  134-154 
Police  Stations,  hospitality  of, 

36,  41,  120,  174,  175,  267- 

269 
Porpoises,  1 01 -103 
Ports  of  entry,  difficulties  with 

officials:  in  Soufriere,  Saint 


INDEX 


351 


Lucia,  162-164;  in  Fort  de 

France,    184-187,    197;    in 

Roseau,  Dominica,  247-250. 

See  also  Duanes. 
Priest,    A,    who    hoodwinked 

his    congregation,    90,    91 ; 

who  coasted  on  a  coffin,  91, 

92 
Priestess  of  Mayero,  99 

Rallet,    Pere   Labat's   sexton, 

230 
Raynal,  Abbe,  cited  concern- 
ing Saba,  321,  322 
Redonda,  275-282 
Religion;    native,    99,     203; 

Carib,  144-148 
Remaud,  Pere,  174-176 
Rhone,  wreck  of  R.M.S.,  335, 

336 
Richaud,  M.,  186-193 
Rocheford,    cited,    concerning 

sharks,  284,  285 
Rodney,  Admiral;  in  the  Bat- 
tle of  the  Saints,  176,  177, 
257-259;  at  Statia,  296-299 
Roseau,  247-252 
Rosinante,  a  sorry  steed,  250- 
255 

Saba,  289,  316-326 
St.  Eustatius,  290,  291-315 
St.  George's,  Grenada,  26-35 
Saint-Hilaire,    Jane-Rose    de, 


priestess  of  Mayero,  47,  98- 
100 

St.  Kitts,  288-291 

Saint  Lucia,  1 61-179 

St.  Pierre,  208-222 

Saint  Vincent,  56,  1 10-155 

Saints,  The,  257,  259;  the 
Battle  of,  176,  177,  257-259 

Salt  Island,  335,  336 

Salute,  The  first  to  the  Amer- 
ican naval  flag,  296-299, 
305,  306 

Sandy  Bay,  Saint  Vincent, 
132,  134,  139,  140 

Sauteurs,  Grenada,  40,  41,  61- 

School,  native,  147 
Schooners,  trading,  201,  289 
Scott's  Head.    See  Cachacrou 

Head 
Sea  eggs,  119,  121,  125,  126; 

how  to  extract,  136-139 
Share  system.      See   Metayer 

system 
Sharks,  30,  55,  101,  102,  282- 

285 ;  how  to  avoid,  31,  183 ; 

Rocheford,  cited,  284,  285 
Slave  trading  beads,  306 
Sleeping  on  board,  33,  80,  81, 

I04,  243,  336,  337 
Sleeping  outfit,  34,  81 
Slocum,  Captain  Joshua,  22 
Sloops,  trading,  28,  275;  ad- 


352 


INDEX 


vantage  of  canoe  over,  171, 

180 
Smith,     Whitfield,     Commis- 
sioner of  Carriacou,  85-93 
Snakes;      fer-de-lance,      122, 

224 ;  antidote  for  bites,  2 1 7, 

218 
Soap,  natural,  169 
Soccer,  as  played  in  Fort  de 

France,  203,  204 
Social  life  of  Dutch ;  at  Statia, 

309,  310,  312-314;  at  Saba, 

324,  325 
Soufriere,    Saint   Lucia,    161- 

170 
Soufriere,  Saint  Vincent,  119- 

125;  eruption  of,  127-129 
Spirits     feared     by     natives; 

Jumbies,  42,  45,  178,  242; 

Lajoblesse,  45 
Squalls,    how    the    C  a  r  i  b  s 

weather,  142,  143 
Statia.    See  St.  Eustatius 
Sugar,  Muscovado,  47 
Sulphur  mining,  169 
Sun,  protection  against,  3 1 ,  94, 

116,  263,  264 
Surf   running,   40,    132,    140, 

225-227,     233,    234,     292, 

317,  3i8 
Swizzles,  113 

Tangalanga  Point,  39,  40 
Tantes,  Les,  71,  76 


Taxation,  petty,  253 

Tent;  Comstock,  34,  80,  104; 
use  for  sleeping  on  board 
canoe,  81,  104,  336,  337; 
native,  178 

Tetanus  on  beaches,  116 

Theodorini,  Dr.,  optometrist, 
in,  112 

"Tide,  Spinning,"  127 

Tide  currents,  30,  31,  42-44, 
56,  71-74 

Tobacco;  Tabac  de  Mar- 
tinique, 192,  193;  famine 
on  Virgin  Gorda,  332,  333 

Tommelendyk,  Battery  of, 
Statia,  3 1 03 1 2 

Toucari  Bay,  Dominica,  255, 
256 

Trade-clouds,  27,  103,  122, 
272,  273,  287 

Trade-wind,  24,  26,  29-31, 
41-44,  71,  92,  123,  124, 
139,  I55>  180,  181,  270, 
271 

Tryworks,  45,  109 

Union  Island,  88,  93-100 
Union  Sportive  Martiniquaise 

et  Touring  Club  Antillais, 

200-202,  203,  204 

Ventine,  Saint  Lucia,  167-169 

Vigie,  The,  Gibraltar  of  the 

British  West  Indies,  171 


INDEX 


353 


Virgin  Gorda,  332,  333 
Virgin  Islands,  327-341 ;  Her- 
rera  cited,  327 

Waddy,    M.,    200-202,    222, 

225-235 
"Wake,"  A  Carib,  144,  145 
Wallace,  "Old  Bill,"  105-107 
Wallibu  Dry  River,  120,  121 
Water ;  how  to  drink,  31;  for 
cruising,  34,  82;  jelly  coco- 
nuts instead  of,    117,   159, 
160,  340,  341 ;  how  to  carry 
in  a  calabash,  131 
Water-nuts.      See    Coconuts, 

jelly 

Weather,  influenced  by  the 
moon,  31,  42-44,  72,  92, 
178,  271 
West  Indies,  scraps  of  history 
of;  origin  of  Black  Caribs 
of  Bequia,  115,  116;  erup- 
tion of  Soufriere,  Saint  Vin- 
cent, 127-129;  eruption  of 
Mt.  Pelee,  127,  210-213; 
Battle  of  the  Saints,  176- 
177,  257-259;  H.M.S.  Dia- 
mond Rock,  182-183; 
French  capture  Cachacrou 
Head,  238 ;  Alexander 
Hamilton,  285,  286;  at  Sta- 
tia,  the  story  of  the  first 
salute,    296-299 ;    Admiral 


Krull,  301-303;  one-armed 
gunner  drives  off  French, 
310-312;  Saba,  320-322; 
early  explorers  and  pirates 
in  the  Virgin  Islands,  335 

Whale  boat,  48-52,  73 

Whale  meat,  a  native  del- 
icacy, 63,  64 

Whalers;  at  lle-de-Caille,  42- 
75;  at  Pigeon  Island,  176- 
179;  Yankee,  253 

Whales;  humpback,  43,  44, 
50-54,  56-69;  sperm,  44; 
how  they  scour  off  barna- 
cles, 291 ;  harpooning,  49- 
54,  57,  65-68;  singing  of, 
53 ;  cutting  in,  62,  63 

Whaling,  42-69 

White  Wall,  The,  Statia,  291 

Wind.    See  Trade-wind 

Woolworth,  Captain,  cited 
concerning  influence  of 
moon  on  weather,  92 

Yakaboo;  meaning  of,  23 ;  de- 
scription of,  24,  32-35,  36- 
38,  83,  113,  114,  156,  157, 
234-236;  sense  of  compan- 
ionship with,  35,  36,  104; 
advantage  over  larger  craft, 
171,  1 80 ;  speed  on  best  run, 
274 


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